


A Solitude of Space

by aceofbasedesires



Category: Final Fantasy VII, Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: (just a smidgen), Angst, Crack Treated Seriously, Farmer!Sephiroth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, Stardew Valley canon-typical fluffiness, The impact of fishing on personal finance, extensive liberties taken regarding how blueberries work, i make up for it by knowing things about crabbing, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-27 08:37:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20945465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofbasedesires/pseuds/aceofbasedesires
Summary: He’s always believed he knew what he was capable of, but it had only been in terms of the chaos he could incite and the pain he could inflict. He had molded himself to that belief. A dog to be kept on a leash, a monster to be chained, an aberration to be studied. He’d never considered that he was capable of anything else, because he was already capable of far too much.Sephiroth, with one more chance at life, settles into life as a farmer. Then, Cloud shows up.Do not need any prior knowledge of Stardew Valley to read.





	1. Chapter 1

Sephiroth wakes to dappled sunlight and the sound of bird song.

His mind is groggy, filled with thoughts that seem too big for the body he’s been placed in. He can’t seem to latch onto any of them, adrift in them like someone lost at sea, but he knows, an instinct, that he needs to remain still. The pain will be coming for him, soon. He needs to enjoy his last moments of relative clarity before it’s burned out of him by agony and the screams of the Lifestream pour into every last space in his head.

He waits. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes, because the pain is usually bad enough to blot out his vision anyway.

He begins to sweat, with the stress of waiting and thoughts of how much pain the human mind can handle before it has no other choice but to break, and turns to something else to occupy his mind. He’s hyper aware of everything around him and he catalogues it all with a detached formality born of years of survival training. He can hear the sluice of water over rock nearby, which means he has access to clean, running water. The scent of pine is strong in the air, and underneath it -- the sap -- a sickly sweet smell like melted candy. Pine trees only appear in the Northern Continent and parts of the Western Continent, and of those, only two kinds produce sap that distinctive. He listens more closely to the birds, and catches a warble, followed by four sharp clicks. A trilling sapthorne, often found in temperate forests in moderate to cold climates. He’s somewhere in the Northern Continent, then.

It’s not knowledge that’s particularly useful; he won’t stay here, he never does, the relief always too overpowering when someone – the Planet, Jenova, his own broken mind – breaks through the haze of pain and tells him where he needs to go and he listens like a dog come to heel. But there’s comfort in the assessment, in the fantasy that maybe this time, it will be different.

He switches from the environment to himself. He’s naked, but pleasantly warm in the sun. His hair is still long, tucked underneath his shoulders and long line of his back and he traces his hands over each other, the part of his body that he knows best, and confirms that this body is, indeed, his own. The thought pulls a strangled noise out of him. At least he’s in some way himself.

But it’s also different than before. He can’t feel the buzzing heartbeat of the Planet at the back of his head anymore, or the pull of life around him. He can’t hear his own heartbeat and he feels heavier, like gravity is having more of an effect. Breathing is slightly harder, and when he touches the hard earth, with the tips of his fingers, he can no longer feel every grain of it. A terrifying, thrilling, realization hits him.

He’s no longer a SOLDIER. His body is not enhanced.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels the hot drips of water in the shell of his ears. It doesn’t last longer than the span of a few seconds – stop crying, boy, or I will remove your tear ducts, Hojo’s sniveling tone a distant, fading echo – but it’s enough to make him feel refreshed in a way he hasn’t in any of his lifetimes, like a cleansing rain. He isn’t sure whether the tears are those of loss or those of joy, but it doesn’t matter when the fact remains: he is human.

He’s shocked to find that there’s an incredible power in that. More than he ever had as a SOLIDER First, slaughtering in the name of Shinra, more than he had as a self-proclaimed god. The cycle doesn’t have to continue. This time doesn’t have to be like the last.

He isn’t sure how long he lies there, but it’s past dark when he realizes what he’s waiting for isn’t coming. He falls asleep, shivering, though it is a blessedly warm night, and when he wakes, it is to a world he is thankful he didn’t end.

~

His memories are slow in returning. He remembers brief, snippets of things as if he were watching them from outside his own body. He remembers his childhood in the labs, and the stench of mako and Hojo’s cold hands and unwashed hair. He remembers when he was given his first SOLDIER mission at thirteen, and his first war at sixteen. He remembers, a year later, Genesis throwing a copy of Loveless in his face, his own face flushed red with embarrassment, as he demanded that Sephiroth read Act III, scene II, line 17. He remembers Angeal giving him one of his prized plants to take care of when he left on a long mission and reading book after painstaking book on gardening to keep it alive. He remembers Zack’s laugh and his fondness for chocobos. He remembers the feeling of Jenova in his head, the euphoria of being able to unleash all of the hurt and the rage and the love that he had fused so tightly inside himself that by the pure nature of physics could do nothing else but explode. He remembers making a choice. He remembers wanting to regret it, but finding nothing inside him that could.

He knows there’s more, that there’s someone, something he’s missing, but he tries not to think too much about it. The memories make him anxious, not because of what he’s done – he always known what he’s capable of – but because he might have lost the part of him that Zack had once called honorable. Worse, he may have never had it to begin with. He’s afraid he will feel nothing.

He leaves the area he awakened into to find somewhere less open, but stays close to the water. He isn’t sure exactly where he is, yet, or what the monster population this far north is like these days, and until he can make a better guess, he knows that wandering away from a water source like this without a weapon is a mistake. He makes a makeshift knife out of hewn rock, and crafts rabbit traps that provide him with enough protein to keep him strong. He cooks the rabbits over a low flame at the mouth of the cave that becomes his home, set into the edge of a stone steppe. He weaves baskets out of vine and tries not to get frustrated when two trips to the river to fill them with water and back leaves him exhausted and his muscles aching. 

He trips when he is bathing in the stream, a week after he wakes up, and falls on a sharp rock, tearing a gash in his knee. He ignores the pain – he has dealt with much worse – but he can’t ignore the bleeding or the accompanying fever. He doesn’t leave the cave for almost a week, thankful that he had enough foresight to store water there since when the fever finally breaks, he can barely crawl the width of the cave to drink some. His recovery is long and painful, and his knee doesn’t heal quite right, even when he finds medicinal herbs to sterilize and speed up the process.

He knows he won’t survive an accident like that again, and he decides that he has to at least attempt to find a town. He spends half a day puzzling out where he is by exploring his surroundings, picking up clues from the signs of animal migrations, the direction the water is flowing, the gradual change in topography he can see from the top of the steppe. He draws a crude map with all of his discoveries in the dirt and memorizes it, gathering what supplies he has and packing them to leave.

It isn’t until then that he realizes that he doesn’t know why he’s doing this. He doesn’t remember many things, but he knows that it is unlikely he will be met with anything but hostility, if not outright violence, should he find somewhere habitable. His actions had ripple effects across all of Gaia – he has no reason to expect that anywhere will give him asylum.

Still. He has nothing else to live for, and no reason not to try.

~

He finds a reason the evening before he leaves as he begins to drift off to sleep.

He’s running through logistics and worst-case scenarios in preparation, when he remembers another time when he had been doing something similar, in a full-leather uniform and in the presence of three other people.

There had been a minor mission to drop supplies at a small Shinra outpost in the Nibel mountains. Normally, he would never have been tasked with something so menial – that’s what the army was for, after all, as evidenced by the three soldiers that had accompanied him – but the outpost was infamous for its treacherous location made all the more dangerous by the influx of high-level monsters, which had killed at least 10 troopers in the past few years. Zack had volunteered to go, but had overbooked himself, and Sephiroth had been growing restless. He’d agreed to go in Zack’s stead, citing the extreme waste that was allowing perfectly capable soldiers to die on a mission that wouldn’t even register as an interesting afternoon to him.

With the unenhanced, it was a two-day trip. Sephiroth had quizzed them and then observed their basic survival protocol, but he had been unimpressed and spent most of the time lecturing them. He’d forced them to forgo the Shinra-equipped campsite in favor of a more realistic survival scenario. He remembered sending two of the troopers off to find firewood and water, respectively, his enhanced hearing picking up every word of them complaining about him as soon as they believed they were out of earshot.

The remaining trooper had finished his job at an admirable speed – creating a shelter with the enormous logs Sephiroth had cut down with a clean slice of his sword – and had wandered further away, using a spoon from their cooking gear to dig a hole. Sephiroth had been annoyed and a little intrigued as he strode over to him.

The trooper had taken off his helmet, his blond, spiky hair flattened and sticking up in the most ridiculous chaos he had ever seen, and Sephiroth had realized that he recognized him from the few times Zack had managed to drag him to the training grounds. Cloud Strife.

“What are you doing, cadet?” Sephiroth asked. Cloud had flinched badly, obviously too absorbed in his work to notice Sephiroth’s approach. Lack of awareness of his surroundings, he remembers thinking. Amateur.

He had refused to look up, though Sephiroth remembers seeing the stain of red over his cheeks. “Digging holes, sir,” he had said, voice quiet.

Sephiroth had intended to lecture him about waiting for orders, but he remembers being caught off guard at the simplicity of the answer. “Why?”

Cloud had finally looked up then, sitting back on his heels, his wide, blue eyes looking up at him skittishly. “We brought fruit with us,” Cloud said. “Valron are drawn to the scent. Burying it should disguise the smell and keep them from frenzying, sir.”

Sephiroth smirked, choosing to be amused rather than annoyed that Cloud thought he could correct him. “A good thought, Strife, but Valron only have an affinity for fruit during their breeding season in midsummer. It’s late spring, so it is not an issue. That’s why I brought it.”

Cloud had nodded, looking somewhat stunned. Sephiroth turned away, ready to give another order and inspect Cloud’s work on the shelter, when he heard Cloud say, almost a whisper: “You forgot about the elevation.”

Sephiroth paused, half-turning back. “Excuse me?”

Cloud took in a breath and said, slightly louder. “It’s just…we’re at an elevation of 700 meters. The highland species of Valron live at elevations greater than 500 meters, and they breed in the spring.”

Sephiroth stared at him. Sephiroth remembers opening his mouth to correct him, and then closing it when he realized Cloud was right. He had overlooked that detail. Not a huge oversight, as oversights went – he could take care of an entire herd of Valron without much effort, if he had the mind to – but he never missed details like that.

“It seems I was mistaken,” Sephiroth said. Cloud, who had been worrying the bottom of his uniform scarf, glanced up, his striking eyes as surprised as Sephiroth felt. “Carry on.”

It hadn’t been praise, not as such, but Cloud’s face had lit up anyway. “I…yes, sir!” 

He’s not sure why he thinks of this memory, or why this is the one that changes it all, but when he remembers Cloud Strife, the dam breaks.

Just like that, he remembers everything. Every moment, every thought, every decision, every second of his lives like a flood trying to drown him. He remembers Nibelheim, the way the flames licked at his skin, how smoothly his sword had slid into Tifa Lockheart’s father and her echoing sobs. He remembers the betrayal in Zack’s eyes, the fear in Cloud’s as he coughed up blood onto Sephiroth’s sword, the agony of vaporizing in a vat of molten mako, screaming at Jenova’s head as if that could force answers from her. He remembers floating in a void of despair, awake and in so much pain he thought he was dying, over and over again with no rest. The balm of Jenova’s voice as it reached to him and filled his mind with bittersweet promises and saccharine answers to questions that had burned him from the inside out all of his life. He remembers killing President Shinra, and seducing Cloud and his ragtag team of vigilantes with the promise of revenge before tearing it out from under them. He remembers killing the Cetra girl as she prayed, and how he realized that she had taken a piece of him with her, the part of him that was being destroyed by the poison in his mind. Most of all, he remembers Cloud, Cloud, Cloud – Cloud’s brave stance and words that spoke nothing of the shy cadet he’d once known that reminded him of someone else, Cloud’s lifeless, half-lidded eyes that didn’t change at all, even as Sephiroth heard his endless, snarling screams in his mind as he controlled him, the Cloud that had fought him with the last shreds of his sanity. The Cloud he had met most recently, ravaged with geostigma and nothing left in his eyes. 

He has never ascribed much to conventional morality – how could he, with the things he’d done before Nibelheim under a different puppet master – but he knows now, with a certainty that could only be truth that there is no salvation for him. Whatever the reasons, however justified he may have felt at the time, however much he may have been just a chess piece on a much larger board, he’d made choices, at every step. Terrible ones. Unforgivable ones.

He doesn’t deserve to live.

All thoughts of travel are abandoned.

He stops leaving the cave. He knows that time passes, can see the shadows growing long just beyond the darkness of the cave and his body shuts itself down to rest when at some point after night falls, but he stops keeping track, unpacking every painstaking detail of his life. 

He thinks about killing himself, as he huddles there. He doesn’t bother to find food or water; if he has his way, he won’t be here long enough to have it. He thinks about ways he could do it; throwing himself off the nearest cliff, eating the poisonous plants that are rampant in the northern woods, finding a sharp enough rock to slit his throat. With his knowledge and skills, and with this weaker, unenhanced body, it would be easy. 

It’s the thought of Cloud, ironically enough, that stops him. His memories of him are the clearest, perhaps because he became a fixed point, a shining beacon of hatred that was all Sephiroth’s own, beyond Jenova, beyond even his own insanity. Cloud was the only thing that was truly his, and he had tried to tear every part of him to shreds in order to keep him. 

The thought of Cloud makes him so sick that he throws up stomach acid. He can’t kill himself. If anyone deserves the killing strike, it’s Cloud, and Sephiroth cannot deny him that. Perhaps he never could have. He wonders if there was some part of himself, some part of that cancerous insanity, that had recognized this.

He draws his shaking knees up to his chest and rests his forehead on them until he finds the strength to stand. He relights his fire, drinks water in the stream, and picks berries from the bush just outside the cave. By the time he’s done, he’s exhausted, and feels scrubbed raw from the inside, the gnaw of hunger and thirst worse now that he’s addressed it. But he’s alive, and for now, it’s enough. 

~

It takes five days, but he manages to recover some of his strength. He replaces the supplies he’d prepared, and gathers a few days worth of water in case he loses his way. He follows the path he had drawn out before his crisis and discovers a town in a valley after two days of walking. He tries to recall it in his memory – he knows the entirety of the northern continent by heart, between travelling it and memorizing tactical maps, what feels like lifetimes ago – but there is nothing to recall. It must be small enough to have escaped notice from the outside world.

He hopes, for his sake, it has remained that way.

It takes some effort, but he finds enough lost clothing and rags to wrap himself in for a modicum of decency and wanders into town. He comes in from the east, and the first buildings he finds are closed for the day. There’s a museum with a cheerful placard outlining the hours, and a small fenced garden in front that is bursting with flowers. The other building, set a little further back, reeks of iron and the burning of coal, and he hears the screech of metal against metal. A blacksmith. He makes a note of it, wondering if he could, at some later date, commission a sword, and continues on. 

He crosses a bridge over a river and into what he thinks is the town proper. From here, he notices the heavy fragrance of fruits, most likely being melted into jam, and beneath that, a saltier brine. The ocean? He’d seen the coastline, on the stone steppe, but it had looked further away than a two-day hike. He attributes it to his human eyes. He’s still getting used to his poorer senses. 

There’s another bridge to his left, and a graveyard to his right. He wonders about that, keeping the dead so close, but he is not one to pass judgment. 

He knows he should find the center of town -- it is the most logical place to find another person and gauge exactly how closely they follow current events -- but he hesitates. He can see a beach to his left, and he’s reminded of the time Angeal and Genesis brought him to Costa Del Sol. He remembers standing in the waves up to his chest as Angeal cajoled him into a surf lesson, getting a sunburn so terrible he couldn’t lay down, and kissing Genesis in the lobby of the inn, his lips tangy and sweet from the syrupy cocktail he’d been nursing at the bar. 

It’s suddenly difficult to breath, his heart squeezing in his chest, and it isn’t until his bare feet, riddled with cuts and bruises from his travels, begin to sting in the cold sand that he realizes he’s moved. 

It’s a small, private beach, though apparently often frequented. There’s a towel abandoned at the edge of the surf that will be swallowed up by the ocean by the next tide, and a lawn chair, set a little more reasonably back, with a pair of sunglasses on the seat. Just beyond it, there’s a rickety dock with a little boat house that looks well-kept, if aged, though he can see no boats. To his left, further down the beach, is a cabin in an equal state of studied disrepair, a dingy buried deep in the sand beside a small, wooden bench. Evidence of life.

He stands there for a long time, staring out at the ocean. He wonders, idly, if anyone owns the cabin, or if it’s abandoned. It would be nice to live on a beach. He’d only ever known the sterility of a lab and the claustrophobic steel of the SOLDIER barracks. 

Everything is pleasantly quiet, and Sephiroth indulges himself. He takes a deep, steadying breath and closes his eyes for a moment, his thoughts, for once, blissfully silent.

“Ahem.” 

Sephiroth’s eyes snap back open. He automatically adopts a fighting stance, his hand twitching to his side. He’s greeted by the sight of a man, not much younger than him, with wavy copper hair that reaches past his shoulders, his green eyes several shades darker than Sephiroth’s own. He’s dressed in simple, casual clothing that appear to be at least a size too big for him, and he’s watching Sephiroth with a wary curiousness, the book in his hand momentarily forgotten. Sephiroth forces himself to relax. 

“Who are you?” the man asks. He eyes Sephiroth’s clothes, his gaze cataloguing him. Sephiroth lets him look, trying to remain calm under the scrutiny. After a long moment, a thought seems to occur to the man. “Ah. Are you friends with Linus?” 

“No,” Sephiroth says. It’s the first time he’s heard his own voice, since waking. Thankfully, it’s his own, though gravelly and deep with disuse. 

“Oh,” he says, looking abashed, though Sephiroth isn’t quite sure why. Was he meant to know this Linus? “I didn’t mean to assume.” 

Sephiroth doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and elects to ignore it. He’s about as good at pleasantries as this man appears to be, so he doesn’t bother with them. “I’m looking for a place to stay.” 

“Unfortunately, there’s no inn in this town,” the man says, looking apologetic. “It’s rather inconvenient for travelers. But there aren’t enough of them to justify it, I’d imagine.” 

Well. That complicates things. He needs somewhere to get his bearings, and come up with some kind of plan. He has no idea if he has access to his old accounts, how much time has passed, or how devastated he had left the world. He had only ever been concerned with the state of things in so far as how much effort he’d have to put in to destroying it, when he’d returned the last few times. He manages to swallow down the sickness the thought raises in him and continues. 

“Then maybe there’s some unused real estate that I would be able to rent?” 

He has many other, more burning questions -- like the name of this town, and why there’s no record of it on a map -- but he can find those out later. He’d come to a decision on the journey here that proving himself to be serious and willing to engage with a community would ingratiate him to the locals fastest. 

Then again, Sephiroth has never been very good with people.

The man stares at him, again, much longer than he had before, long enough for Sephiroth to feel his cheeks begin to heat with shame, and then he laughs. It’s oddly musical. Sephiroth tries to tamp down the anger that this nobody of a man would laugh at him, and to his surprise, it works.

“It looks like you’re more in need of clothing than land,” the man says.

Sephiroth blinks. “I’m in need of both.”

It’s a pragmatic response, but the man finds it amusing. It irritates him. “You’re a very...curious character,” the man says. The way he says it, it seems like a good thing. “Would you mind if I wrote about you in my book?” 

“Book?” Sephiroth asks, thrown. 

“Yes. I’m a writer, and I am always looking for inspiration. A mysterious stranger comes to town...that is the start of many wonderful stories.” 

And tragedies, too. Sephiroth’s written more than one of those himself without the benefit of a pen. 

“I would prefer that you didn’t,” Sephiroth says. 

If the man is upset by this, he doesn’t show it. “A conversation for another day, then,” the man says. Sephiroth doesn’t bother correcting him. “Presumably, you are intending to stay, Mr.--”

He thought about it on the journey here, and he knows that lying is the most logical choice. But he also knows the inevitability of his situation, and hiding will only make him unprepared. 

He can use this man to gauge how welcome he will be here. He has no weapons, but even with his unenhanced body, he has enough martial skill to take down one man. A writer, no less. He takes a breath, and readies himself for the man’s reaction. 

“Sephiroth.” 

Time stretches out, on and on and on, and for one long, terrible moment, he thinks all of his worst case scenarios might come to fruition. The man watches him with an expression that Sephiroth can’t decipher -- and he hopes, with a genuine desperation, that he doesn’t choose to fight him, because Sephiroth will win, and he doesn’t have the stomach for it anymore -- and then blinks. He takes a step forward. 

“Ah, and a strong literary name! What a true joy to meet someone so unique,” he says, with a slight bow. “My name is Elliott. It’s a pleasure.” Sephiroth stares at him, bewildered, and inclines his head. 

There’s no recognition in him. He doesn’t know who he is. 

Relief floods through Sephiroth. It’s powerful enough that it steals the breath from his lungs, but he doesn’t allow himself to any time to examine it. Elliott doesn’t give him a chance, anyway, less suspicious now that the formalities are out of the way. 

“I’m afraid I can’t help you, however,” Elliott continues. “I only moved here recently myself and haven’t been able to befriend too many people just yet.”

From where, Sephiroth wants to ask, since he doesn’t know where this man could have possibly been to have not been affected by the events of the past few years. He doesn’t. 

“I see.” He’s not entirely sure where to go from here, and now that he knows that Elliott can’t help him, he wishes that he would leave to let him figure it out on his own. It’s been years since he’s held a conversation this long, and it’s exhausting.

“I can lead you to the mayor,” Elliott continues, oblivious. “If you think he would be of any use.”

“Yes,” Sephiroth says, wondering why he didn’t lead with that, but too grateful that he has somewhere else to inquire that he can’t find it in himself to be irritated. 

Elliott inclines his head, and waves Sephiroth behind him, leading him back the way he had come back into the town. 

They don’t speak as they wind through the small cobbled streets, which Sephiroth is thankful for. There’s a tug of recognition for the small residences they keep passing, and he realizes, with some horror, that they remind him of Nibelheim.

“Here you are,” Elliott says a few minutes later. He’s led them out of the main part of town into a more pastoral area, and an old, run-down building. Most of the windows have been shattered, and the paint is stripped from the wood panelling, but the bones of it are sturdy enough. 

“This is the community center,” Elliott says. “I’ve been told it’s seen better days.”

“I should hope so,” Sephiroth comments, since it seems Elliott is expecting him to. 

He infers that he said the right thing, Elliott’s lips quirking up at the edges. “Quite. Mayor Lewis spends his mornings here, most days.” 

Elliott walks up to the door and opens it with a light courtesy knock. A voice answers, tells them to come in. 

“This is where I’ll leave you,” Elliott says. “I should get back.” 

“I appreciate it,” Sephiroth says. He holds out his hand and, after a moment of hesitation, Elliott takes it. His hand is warm and his first two fingers and thumb are calloused on the inside. They catch warmly on Sephiroth’s skin.

“It was no trouble,” Elliott says. He looks like he might say more, but only smiles to himself after a moment and shakes his head. “Excuse me.”

He disappears the other way, and Sephiroth feels the strange urge to call after him. He believes the feeling is clinginess born of isolation, and a more familiar one: the appreciation of beauty. Elliott is quite beautiful, though Sephiroth knows better than to pursue that line of thought.

~

Mayor Lewis is nearly a foot shorter than Sephiroth, with a mustache and glasses that slide down the bridge of his nose. He has kind eyes and an unguarded manner to him that Sephiroth finds refreshing, if confusing, and he doesn’t ask too many questions. 

They don’t speak for very long, but by the time they are done, Sephiroth is no longer General Sephiroth, SOLDIER First Class, Destroyer of Worlds, but Sephiroth, head farmer of Berrybramble Farm. The owner of the farm, an old man who had lived there all his life, had died a few years before and his granddaughter had donated the land to the town to do with as they saw fit. But no one had been interested in or had the means to provide the labor required for upkeeping a farm, so it had been left in general disrepair. 

A perfect opportunity. Or, it would have been, if Sephiroth had money to rent a farm, or do anything else, with. He’d figured that an inn would be a low enough sum that he could figure out how to pay for it as he stayed, but an entire piece of property is a different story. He’d said as much to Lewis, who, to Sephiroth’s surprise, had laughed it off with nothing more than a wave of his hand. 

“It’s no problem. A little hospitality goes a long way, and if someone wanders into town with a burning desire to farm when we’re hurting for a farmer, well. You can’t just ignore kismet like that, can you?”

Sephiroth hadn’t been sure what he’d meant, since it was, by all accounts, a complete coincidence, but he’s had enough experience with the Planet to suspect that maybe something larger is at play. A pink dress and a kind smile come to mind.

“No,” Sephiroth had said, accepting a packet of a cauliflower seeds. “ I suppose you can’t.”

~

They work it out so that Sephiroth is able to take on the debt and slowly repay it as he provides produce at a reasonable price to the townspeople. This requires him to learn, very quickly, how to farm, which is far more difficult, and enjoyable, than he ever thought it would be.

The farm is in disarray when he gets there, and it takes nearly three days to clean out the small cabin. There isn’t much furniture in it – it’s barely three rooms in total, bathroom included – but it’s dusty from months of disuse. He cleans and finds little pieces of the people who left it behind; a shoelace here, an errant hair clip there, a half-chewed dog biscuit. Traces of lives lived. He doesn’t remember leaving anything behind, aside from zolom carcasses, scorched earth, and fear.

It’s thoughts like those that get the farm cleared faster than he thought possible just by looking at it. He digs out weeds and prepares the modest fields for planting, tending to the few plants that are still clinging to life, even with all of the neglect. He spends the most time with these, nursing them slowly back to health. That is the great thing about living like this; there is always more to do. 

About a month in, he learns that the river that meanders around the entire town is bursting with fish, and Sephiroth discovers his love of fishing. He drags a rickety chair that he made for the makeshift desk in his house down to the river’s edge and settles in for five or six hour long sessions where he waits, thinking of nothing as he stares out in the red stained summer skies.

He shares his catches with the people in town. He’s met most of them by now, but there are very few that are more than passing acquaintances. Penny visits him on occasion to bring her famous seasonal pies, using fruit from his stand that he puts out on the weekends during the farmer’s market. He’s de facto adopted a sullen, moody teenage girl named Abigail who doesn’t so much speak to him as much as follows him around, criticizing what he’s doing and sometimes tossing him one of the sugar-filled, carbonated abominations she calls a soda. Many of the townspeople swear she wasn’t always so dour, though Sephiroth cannot see how that is possible. There’s a man, maybe a decade his senior who shows open suspicion and dislike for him, which Sephiroth ignores, as he can’t blame him for doing so, even though it’s mostly in ignorance. Most people seem not to have heard about him by name, only the events that took place, and Sephiroth is in no rush to deepen their knowledge.

He sees Elliott rarely, but he finds himself looking forward to their interactions. There’s something about him that reminds him of Genesis and a little of Zack, but without the energy of either of them. He’s well read and appreciates a good argument, unafraid of saying his opinion and fighting for it, though he keeps insisting that he’s generally easy going. It’s this quality that he likes best about Elliott, his unabashed refusal to be intimidated, his determination to fight when needed. He tries not to think about how much it reminds him of Cloud. 

It takes almost six months before Sephiroth settles into his new routines. He keeps to himself, a fact that most of the town has cottoned onto (except Abigail, though even she knows when her company is greatly unwanted, which, surprisingly, is less often than Sephiroth would have ever guessed), but with the summer harvest bigger than ever, he’s been even more reclusive. He hasn’t seen Elliott in almost three weeks, and when he comes over late one evening with a bottle of blackberry cordial and a battered copy of a trashy romance novel called Evening with Chocobos, it’s as if Sephiroth has never seen him before. He’s cut his hair shorter so that it hits just below his shoulders, and he’s tanned from the sun. They drink the cordial, speaking of the latest philosophy book that Elliott borrowed from the library, a volume that Sephiroth has read, and Sephiroth thinks, for the first time in his entire life, I am happy.

He’s not sure whether it’s the cordial or the way Elliott’s laugh lightens the oppressive fog of his own mind, but one thing leads to another, and he finds himself kissing Elliott, Elliott kissing back, and a mess of ripped clothing leading from the entryway into his bedroom. They have sex on his narrow bed, and Sephiroth, aware that he’s no longer a monster, no longer has the strength to rend a bedframe in two, doesn’t hold back, painting Elliott’s hips in bruises as he drives into him, Elliott’s fingernails carving red hot, stinging lines into his skin as he asks for more, more, more. When they’re finished, Sephiroth presses hot, open mouthed kisses to his throat as Elliott laughs.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since the day I met you,” he confesses, his fingers tracing over his shoulder blade. 

“Then, perhaps,” Sephiroth says as he bites down, hard, on his ear, and Elliott moans into his skin, “we should make up for lost time.”

~

It becomes a regular thing for Elliott to come over in the evenings. He sits on the ancient rocking chair on the porch and waits for Sephiroth to finish checking on the animals, writing incoherent notes on scraps of paper he keeps in his breast pocket. They make dinner together -- or rather, Sephiroth makes dinner for the both of them -- with spare produce from the farm. Elliott speaks without pause about his latest interest or discovery while Sephiroth settles into cooking. They delve into many subjects, but Sephiroth enjoys hearing about Elliott’s book the most. He is passionate about it, his eyes alight as he speaks about his problems with the latest scene, or asks advice about his plot elements. Sephiroth offers his opinions where he can, but he has never written anything other than military reports. Elliott isn’t deterred by this at all. 

“This book is only happening because of you,” Elliott confesses one night, staring into his mug filled with blackberry wine that Sephiroth is experimenting with to sell. Sephiroth stops cutting the vegetables, placing the knife down on the counter with deliberate grace. “You gave me the idea to write a mystery.” 

“You asked a question and I answered it,” Sephiroth says. “You’re the one who is writing it.” 

“I couldn’t have written it without your answer,” Elliott insists, his eyes bright and a little glassy from the drink. “I was paralyzed by my indecision and it was starting to affect my work. If you hadn’t been so direct, I’m afraid I would have never written another word!” 

Sephiroth knows that’s an exaggeration; nothing could keep Elliott from his writing. But he is touched by the sentiment. It’s the first time in as long as he can remember that he has been a positive influence, that something he has done or said has been in an effort to create something.

His gratitude -- for whoever brought him back, for Elliott, even for Cloud, who ensured there was a world that he could return to -- is too immense to put into words. He thinks about it well after they have finished the dinner he made himself, when Elliott is curled around him, the sweat still cooling on their skin, and Elliott’s breath beats a soft cadence on his chest. It makes the guilt swell to a high enough pitch that he can hardly focus on anything else, but it also calms him. 

He’s always believed he knew what he was capable of, but it had only been in terms of the chaos he could incite and the pain he could inflict. He had molded himself to that belief. A dog to be kept on a leash, a monster to be chained, an aberration to be studied. He’d never considered that he was capable of anything else, because he was already capable of far too much. 

He was wrong, about so many things. It should make him feel like a failure, but, somehow, it’s freeing.

~

Elliott introduces Sephiroth to his friend, Leah, on a sunny day during midsummer. Sephiroth remembers meeting her once before at his stand at the farmer’s market, but she hadn’t spoken to him beyond asking him about the price of his parsnips before moving onto the next stall. 

She greets them just outside her house after their morning walk, a daily ritual that allows Sephiroth to patrol and assess his surroundings without being too obvious. Her red hair, a few shades lighter than Elliott’s, is tied back in a messy braid, and her skin is burned red from the summer sun. There’s fresh paint and drying clay crusting on her coveralls, and she smells faintly of sealing chemicals. 

She invites them into her house. The inside is smaller than it looks on the outside, though it could be the sheer amount of things that are packed into the space -- buckets of paint and stacks of canvases litter the room, shoved into every free surface. There’s a bed in the corner, unmade, but it’s shoved aside almost as an afterthought. The center of the room is covered entirely in an enormous dropcloth with some sort of plinth in the middle, large enough that it nearly reaches the ceiling. 

“Sorry we haven’t had to opportunity to talk before; I keep to myself,” Leah says after she returns with a tray of lemonades.

“I value my solitude, as well,” Sephiroth says, accepting a glass. “It can be a rare commodity.” 

“It seems we all have that in common,” Leah says. She elbows Elliott playfully. “It’s hard even getting him out of his cabin, most days.” 

Elliott sputters indignantly. “Utter slander! I go outside. A writer must experience all breadths of human experience, after all.” 

“Has he helped you on the farm yet?” Leah asks Sephiroth, a lighthearted glint in her eye. 

“Not at all,” Sephiroth says with an answering smirk. 

Elliott huffs, throwing up his hands. “I have! I watered some of the fields, just the other day! You are both liars and terrible friends.” 

Leah laughs, setting down the tray on a stack of drawing pads and handing Elliott his lemonade with a consoling pat on the elbow. “Cheer up. You could have friends that ‘slander’ you behind your back. At least we’re doing it to your face.” 

“I don’t know how that is better,” Elliott mutters, taking a drink of lemonade, as Leah begins to tease him in earnest. 

Their familiarity is easy and light, and Sephiroth can’t help but feel a twinge of envy. He had been close to Angeal and Genesis, but their relationship had been one of shared experience and, in Genesis’ case, bittersweet rivalry that had little room for levity. Even with Zack, who was bright and made friends as easily as breathing, Sephiroth had never managed to get close enough to bridge the chasm that separated them, Sephiroth too awkward and unused to intimacy to return Zack’s overtures of friendship in any meaningful way. It is one of his biggest regrets that he did not recognize the gift that was Zack Fair sooner. 

He is broken from his thoughts by the sound of his name. “What?” 

“I asked if you were interested in art,” Leah says, her smile bemused. “Elliott says that you have been helping with his novel.”

“I don’t know what I am interested in,” Sephiroth says honestly. If the response sounds strange to her, she doesn’t show it. “And Elliott is overstating my involvement.” 

“I am not. You have been instrumental in my process,” Elliott insists. 

“Usually I’d agree with you,” Leah says, ignoring Elliott’s indignance. “But when it comes to writing, he’s incredibly serious. If he says you’re good, you’re good.” 

Sephiroth doesn’t know how to respond to this, and so he doesn’t. Leah takes it in stride. “If you don’t know whether or not you like art, would you like to try it?” 

“I…” 

He had tried doing art exactly once when he was young. He’d been given an assignment far too difficult for someone of his age and after the third hour of staring blankly at the list of equations, he’d gotten frustrated and flipped the paper over. He doodled all over it for hours, so engrossed in his newfound ability that he hadn’t noticed Hojo coming in. All of the punishments Hojo had given him had blurred together over the years, all more horrifying than the next, but he remembers that one, the pain and the iron bite of blood in the air, but he also remembers the burn of curiosity and the balm of doing something entirely his own. 

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I would like to try.” 

Leah sets up an easel and gives him a canvas, a brush, and an assortment of paints that he selects from her impressive collection. He expects her to give him instructions, or at least tell him what to paint, but as soon as he has all the supplies she thinks he needs, she abandons him for her own work. 

He knows he looks ridiculous, standing there with a paintbrush held in his hand as if it might break, utterly bewildered. “How...how do I start?” 

She just waves behind her. Elliott laughs just behind him, and his hand grazes Sephiroth’s back as he hooks his chin on his shoulder.

“She won’t tell you anything else,” Elliott says, his breath soft against his throat and smelling of lemonade. “She doesn’t want you to think it. You have to feel it.” 

“Feel what?” Sephiroth asks, bewildered. Elliott untangles himself from Sephiroth and steps away, moving to return to the couch Leah had uncovered earlier. 

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” he says. Sephiroth resists the urge to scowl at him, turning his irritation on the blank canvas. 

He stands there for the better part of an hour. Elliott has fallen asleep, his long limbs askew, and Sephiroth watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the scrunch of his nose as he dreams. Affection wells up in him, and he has the sudden urge to capture the moment, but he knows his skills are nowhere near what they would need to render it exactly how he wishes. 

But maybe he doesn’t have to. He looks at the paints surrounding him, and dips his brush into the first one that catches his attention, a stunning, bright blue. Without thinking too hard, without thinking at all, he paints. 

It is not a masterpiece by any means, just a mess of color, really, but the relief he feels when he steps back, paint caked onto his cheek and fingers cramping, chokes him. Something loosens inside of him, carved out like water eroding stone.

“Sephiroth, this is magnificent!” Elliott exclaims. “You are a natural talent! Are you sure you’ve never done this before?” 

Sephiroth feels a spark of irritation at the question -- he’d already conveyed that he hadn’t, and Elliott is not subtle in his prying -- but Sephiroth’s eyes are fixed on the piece he made with his own hands and it suddenly doesn’t seem all that important. “Never,” Sephiroth says. 

Elliott continues to sing his praises with far too many words, but Leah only smiles and asks him if he’d like her to drop it off for him in a few days, once it’s dry. Somehow, he thinks she understands. 

~

He learns that interacting with other people is like building a muscle; it takes sustained effort with the right amount of repetition. Too much all at once, and he feels like he has sacrificed more than he’s gained. Too little, and he feels stagnant and begins to doubt his progress. It’s difficult to strike a balance at first, but eventually, he begins to understand. 

He figures out is that he, as a person, is not very palatable to most. He’s awkward and far too blunt, and has a hard time relaxing enough to enjoy a conversation, too preoccupied with detailing every single microexpression on every face in front of him so he can try to interpret what they mean rather than what they’re saying. It’s off-putting to many, and for a while, he drinks by himself in the corner of the local saloon like a lonely gargoyle, letting the lively chattering of the evening crowd wash over him as he tries to blend into the decor. Even later, when he convinces Elliott to join him on occasion so he isn’t so alone, it doesn’t help -- they are all friendlier towards Elliott than they are to him, but he notices the way they treat him, even after living here as long as he has. Sephiroth doesn’t want that. He doesn’t have the luxury of it, anyway. If he’s going to convince the world that he’s worthy of living in it, he has to convince them first. 

Sephiroth gets drunk one evening, a feat his enhanced body had never quite been able to achieve. It’s a revelation to him, because what he thought being drunk was, was not, in fact, being drunk. He doesn’t realize this, however, until he’s already so inebriated that he’s entered a handstand competition with Pam for a free pint of beer and by then, he doesn’t care. 

He wakes up the next morning feeling like death (he would know), and throws up in his bedside drawer. He lays around, miserable, but he’s been using his Sundays to restock his food and seed supply, so he pours himself into the semblance of a person and goes into town. He sees many of the same people he sees every Sunday, but it’s different this time. Harvey rarely pays him any mind, always looking owl-like and dazed in the mornings, but when he sees Sephiroth this time, he smiles and raises his coffee to him and makes a joke about something related to the hair of a dog. Gus waves to him as he’s going to open the saloon, and Willy asks when he’s going to come down to the ocean and share some of that fishing knowledge he was so eager to discuss last night. 

This leads to a free meal courtesy of Gus for lunch and an afternoon spent with Willy talking only of lures and fishing rods and idle comments on their best catches while they fish in the rolling waves outside of his shop. 

Ultimately, he stops trying to get them to understand him and tries to understand them instead. After that, things are easier. He takes the parts of himself that they want and hides the rest. For Penny, lonely and isolated, he sits quietly under the large tree near the center of town and listens to her struggles, saying very little of substance. For Pierre, he becomes the ideal farmer, asking all the right questions and showing him the (sometimes literal) fruits of his labor. For Demetrius, he becomes a scientist, the Sephiroth of Hojo’s creation, assisting with experiments and asking probing, critical questions about the nature of the results. Slowly, slowly, he wins them over. 

Some days, he feels so alienated from his own identity, he wonders if it’s worth it. At his worst, he wonders if he’s even himself at all, if he deserves a sense of self at all after everything that’s happened.

He feels most at ease with Elliott. Even before their relationship turned into something decidedly more than casual acquaintance, Sephiroth had been at his closest facsimile around him, almost by accident. Elliott acts in ways that are unpredictable, and challenges him on things that he doesn’t expect, and Sephiroth often responds in a way that is more him than he intended. It’s refreshing. It keeps him from losing his tether to reality. 

But it grates on him, wears on him more and more quickly. He may not have to hide as much of himself with Elliott as with other people, but Elliott has his version of Sephiroth he wants, as well, and it’s far more complicated. 

Elliott is prideful about strange things, and one of those things is Sephiroth. He boasts about the things they do, and how much Sephiroth knows about every subject. He divulges little details about Sephiroth’s personal life, showing off the fact that he knows him better than anyone else. At first, Sephiroth doesn’t mind -- he’s used to the tactics people use to gain acclaim and respect, however futile -- but he soon finds himself frustrated, and more often than not, he wishes he could stand up and shake him and say, stop talking, you don’t even know half of what you think you do. 

Elliott asks for more and more of Sephiroth, they all do, and Sephiroth does what he can to give it to them. But there are some lines he’s unwilling to cross, some sacrifices he’s unwilling to make, even as a way of repenting. Even as a way of keeping the few allies he’s made. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” Elliott asks one evening, during late autumn, when he catches Sephiroth setting up a rabbit trap at the edge of the property when he calls him for dinner. 

There’s no good way to tell him that this is just a miniature version of the trap he’d actually been taught, to catch monsters that even a resident of Gaia would assume were fiction, so he simply says, “Midgar.”

“I’ve never been,” Elliott says. And you never will, Sephiroth thinks. I destroyed it. “Did you grow up there?” 

It’s an innocent enough question, but Sephiroth still freezes, tense. “Yes,” Sephiroth says. At least that’s what they had told him, in the stark white labs deep below ground. But then again, they’d lied to him, over and over, until the truth stopped being important. “In a manner of speaking.” 

“You must miss it, being so far away,” Elliott says in a way that makes it clear he’s digging for something. 

Sephiroth sets the trap without snapping the trigger, somehow, and stands. “I would rather not talk about it.” 

“Oh. Of course,” Elliott says. Sephiroth takes his supplies and moves to the next location. He doesn’t realize Elliott has followed him until he clears his throat and starts talking again, more hesitant. “It’s just...you know everything about my life and I know so little about yours. I understand that there are some things better left buried--” 

“There are,” Sephiroth says, vehement. 

“--but if we are, I mean to say if you feel similarly about me as I do you, then we need to be honest with each other.” 

Sephiroth nearly laughs in his face. Honest. If he’s honest, he’ll ruin everything. 

“My past is not a reflection of who I am now,” Sephiroth says, as honestly as he can, even though it tastes like a lie. “If you are unsatisfied with that, then I’m not sure what else I can say.” 

“I understand,” Elliott says, though Sephiroth can tell that he doesn’t. He crouches down next to Sephiroth and asks him to teach him to set up the trap instead, and they distract themselves with it until it gets too dark to see. 

The Sephiroth Elliott wants is the most complicated because it’s a Sephiroth he could imagine himself being, had things been different, had Lucrecia loved him more and his friends stayed. It hurts having to pretend that he once had everything he’s ever wanted, and then somehow still chose to leave them. 

He thinks Elliott may love this version of him. He can’t blame him. In many ways, he loves it, too. 

~

Often, more often than he likes, he thinks of Cloud. 

He’s avoided thinking about Cloud whenever possible, and he has mostly succeeded, too. He’s busy, and he’s still not used to his human stamina and overexerts himself often, so it isn’t uncommon for him to go days without heeding any passing thought that comes by. It’s only on the worst nights, when sleep is difficult in coming and fitful when it does, that he dreams of Cloud standing over him, buster sword in hand, mako green eyes bright in the darkness and filled with a hatred and a rage that could make a man insane.

“You took everything from me,” Cloud says.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the darkness as Cloud swings the giant sword down and Sephiroth awakes with a violent start, sheets tangled at his feet and drenched in sweat. 

He starts cataloguing what he remembers about Cloud. He’d never paid attention before, not when such information could have been used for friendship, and not even when it could have been used later, as a weapon. Cloud is the most talented swordsman Sephiroth has ever met, but that alone wouldn’t have been enough to kill him the ways Cloud has. He underestimated Cloud, in every lifetime, in every interaction. If he’s been granted the same choice once more, he’s going to do what he should have from the beginning. 

He remembers a surprising amount of things about Cloud from before Nibelheim, mostly from Zack, who never seemed to stop talking about him. He’d only ever half-listened because he knew that, at that point, Zack was just trying to distract himself from Angeal, but he still picked up more than he expects. He remembers that Cloud liked how soft the army scarves were, and enjoyed horror movies. He was a picky eater and hated green beans but loved anything with potatoes. He loved coffee even though it made him excessively jittery and had a real fondness for chocobos that went beyond his resemblance to one. 

Everything else he either observed when they had fought, the height of his clarity, and snippets of observation from the fog of Jenova. He knows his weaknesses, and his strengths in battle, and that of his friends, he’s closest to the fighter, Tifa. The picture it paints is of someone with more depth than Sephiroth had ever realized and Sephiroth finds himself wanting to know him, not as a rival, but as a person.

Eventually, Sephiroth stops living like he’s going to die, and the nature of his thoughts change about Cloud, too, morphing into little mental exercises of things more mundane: how he’ll apologize to Cloud, how Cloud will react, what Cloud will be thinking. How Sephiroth will impress him with the chicken coop he’s built himself, or give him a slice of one of the various fruit pies he keeps in his kitchen made from his own fresh ingredients. How he’ll prove to Cloud, without a shadow of a doubt, that he regrets everything, every moment from before and how he doesn’t deserve forgiveness, but maybe, just maybe, he’s earned this new life.

But even though the thoughts are more pleasant, he sees the danger in them. The things he has now, he should be putting energy there and tending to the seeds he’s already planted, metaphorically and otherwise. He’s gotten used to having a future; he’s not going to let an image of the past destroy it, not like he did before. This new life has changed him; he will not trade what he’s built for anything.

Except, as it turns out, a fishing rod.

~

Fishing has become as much a part of his income as his plants, which he only realizes once his rod breaks and he is left fishless for several weeks. He finds himself unable to afford his even simpler luxuries and he cannot enjoy the other benefits fishing offers him on his scant days off and the decrease in his quality of life is enough that it starts affecting his other work. He gets irritable enough that everyone in town starts to notice, most of all his friends.

“What’s wrong with you?” Abigail asks one day, perched on top of a crate that Sephiroth has been using in preparation for a shipment of honey. She pops her gum as she watches him through the curtain of her purple hair, the dark charcoal lines around her eyes making her look like she hasn’t slept in a few days more than a fashion statement, though Sephiroth knows better than to tell her so.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Sephiroth says. He throws a handful of potatoes he’s just pulled up from the ground in the bucket in front of him, his forearms smeared with dirt.

“Yeah, ok,” she says sarcastically. “Perfectly fine my ass. You’ve been even more uptight than usual. And that’s saying something.”

“It’s none of your concern. You’re a child.”

He’s half-hoping she’ll take real offense to that and storm away, but she’s become immune to his pithy insults. “Nice try. Tell me, or I’ll tell Elliott you were screaming Cloud’s name again in your sleep.”

Abigail had caught him, once, asleep on his porch in the mid-afternoon on a particularly warm day. He’d awoken to another nightmare about Cloud and had apparently yelled his name, startling an unsuspecting Abigail, who had then begun to use it as ammunition whenever she saw fit. Sephiroth remembers Zack making a comment about not underestimating the tactical genius of young women, and he’s beginning to understand why.

“I’ve never seen you speak to Elliott, I doubt you would start now,” Sephiroth says. “Besides, there would be no reason to believe you. You have a reputation for being a liar and have been caught several times taking advantage of other people for fun. I have a clean record.”

He’s aware of the irony of that statement, but chooses to not acknowledge it. She mumbles something incoherent, and Sephiroth is sure he hears his name. He smirks, moving to the next row of potatoes.

“I was just curious,” she said, huffing as she looks away. He glances up at her and then sighs.

“My fishing pole broke,” Sephiroth concedes. “And without the extra income from fish, I cannot afford to buy a new one. It’s become an issue.”

“That’s it?” she says. “I thought it was going to be something juicier.”

“I would say I was sorry to disappoint…”

She grins at him and leans on her palms. “You’re no fun.”

“I’ve heard that before. I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

She shrugs and kicks the crate beneath her. She stops asking questions and just switches to watching Sephiroth work, a small smile on her face. She bids him goodbye rather suddenly and he watches her leave, confused.

Two weeks later, and he’s desperate. His mood has plummeted, and he’s been reduced to eating only potatoes. He finds a magazine in town that has a fishing section in it and he takes it home. He’s paging through it as he eats an apple Marnie was kind enough to give him for free, the sweet, tangy flavor a welcome addition to his pallet. He finds a rod that he likes that’s also a reasonable price and circles it with a red pen. He’s about to circle another potential when someone knocks on the door.

He’s still absorbed in his reading, so he doesn’t bother to look up as he opens the door, anticipating one of his neighbors.

“Can I help you—“

There’s a muted thump as a package hits the ground at Sephiroth’s feet. He glances up and sees bright blue eyes and wild blond hair, a huge sword handle over a shoulder, and thinks, shit.

He jumps back, just in time for a sword to swing down and splinter the wood where Sephiroth was just standing. He darts sideways, toward the bedroom, and feels the wind of the blade follow, nearly catching his hair. He dives toward the bed, his fingers touching the katana, and yanks it out. He unsheathes it and throws it up in front of him in a short, fast arc just as Cloud’s sword comes down again.

The clang of metal on metal is as sweet a sound as it ever was, but instead of the adrenaline driving him faster, challenging him to retaliate, it just makes him sick. He’s weaker than he’s ever been and the pressure of Cloud’s enormous sword is too much for his arm. It takes all of strength to move it enough to fling Cloud’s sword away from his face even a few inches, and Cloud takes advantage of the momentum and disarms him, the katana skittering away on the floor and hitting the wall.

“Cloud,” Sephiroth says, and he hates how breathless he sounds. Now that he’s facing Cloud fully, he can see that he doesn’t look much different than he did the last time he’d seen him. He’s wearing similar black clothes to when they’d last fought, but Sephiroth can see a few more scars littering his face and arms. He looks thinner, more gaunt, but he’s not sure whether that’s just the sallowness of his skin or if he’s actually lost weight. But the look in his eyes is the same as ever; determined, furious, and eternally sad. He raises his sword again, and Sephiroth forces himself to look at Cloud head on, though he makes no move to rise.

“I thought the last time was for good. Aerith said…I thought…” Cloud says, his voice low and quiet, and a little bit hysterical. “Why can’t you stay dead?”

“Cloud,” he says again, but despite every scenario he’s run through in his head for months about what he’d say if this moment ever came, he comes up blank. 

“I don’t care,” Cloud says. “Whatever it is, I don’t care. Nothing you say will change anything.”

Sephiroth doesn’t want to die. He thinks of Elliott and Abigail and the patch of field he still has to hoe to make it ready for cranberry season. He thinks about fruit pies, and lazy, early-morning sex, and the smell of homemade beer near Pam’s trailer. He thinks of how many shelves he’s gotten through in the library, and how many more he still has to go.

And yet.

He’d made a promise to himself. And he’d always been the kind of man to keep promises, however difficult, no matter how insane he happened to be.

He leans back against the bed and sits up straighter, and pulls at the collar of his shirt, leveling his gaze at Cloud defiantly.

“Kill me,” Sephiroth says. “If it will ease your pain, then kill me.”

Confusion crosses Cloud’s face for the space of a second, but then only cold determination and a hunger for a revenge he’s been denied three times. Sephiroth doesn’t want this, but looking at Cloud now, he knows, with sheer conviction, that this is the right thing to do. He hasn’t had that sort of moral clarity since Jenova, and he thinks he likes his version better.

He closes his eyes and waits for the killing strike. Then, he hears a voice from the front of the house.

“Sephiroth? I saw a motorbike out front, you don’t have a visitor over, do you? I finished my latest chapter and was hoping you could give me some critique. I brought tea and those biscuits you like—“

Elliott comes into view just over Cloud’s shoulder. He’s holding a basket, which slides out of his hands as quickly as the smile slides off of his face. It crashes to the ground, spilling paper and tea bags everywhere as he stares at Cloud, the sword pointing at Sephiroth’s chest, and Sephiroth on the ground.

“Sephiroth,” Elliott says, fear creeping into his voice. Also, concern, he realizes. For him.

“Elliott,” Sephiroth says. “I’m sorry.” He knows it won’t be enough to alleviate the emotional pain that Elliott will feel when he returns to find Sephiroth dead, but this is the first time he’s been able to face his own death with full ownership over himself and his emotions. He doesn’t want any more regrets. “Please leave. I do not wish for you to see this.”

“See what?” Elliott says, his voice shaking. “Are you…” he says to Cloud, whose eyes are still turned toward Sephiroth, though he’s clenching his jaw so hard it’s making the muscle in his cheek twitch. “Are you trying to kill him?”

“Yes,” Cloud says, as blunt as ever. Sephiroth would smile wryly, if he wasn’t so concerned with getting Elliott away from here.

Elliott looks even more stricken, if possible, so it’s a surprise when he finally does move, faster than Sephiroth has ever seen him. He ducks under Cloud’s sword, which makes him jerk it up to keep from accidentally slicing him, and stands in front of Sephiroth.

“What are you doing?” Sephiroth asks, bewildered.

“Protecting you,” Elliott says.

“This isn’t one of your novels,” Sephiroth says, now with considerable exasperation, the unreality of the situation making him feel incredibly off-balance.

“It will be, if you and I survive this,” Elliott says, which makes Sephiroth’s lips twitch up in amusement, however involuntarily.

Cloud’s expression would be comical to him, too, if he wasn’t so close to dying by his hand. He looks completely lost, his eyebrows creased as if he was also angry about that fact.

“Get out of the way,” Cloud says. “Do you have any idea who that is?”

“Sephiroth,” Elliott says, simply. Cloud’s eyes darken. 

Sephiroth grabs Elliott’s wrist, pulls his attention back. “Elliott, please go.”

“I’m not leaving without you,” Elliott says. A swell of affection overcomes him, making it hard to breathe, his heart fluttering in his chest. No one has ever defended him before.

It’s as pointless now as it ever was, though; it changes nothing.

He feels no bitterness with the thought, only genuine gratefulness, and that, somehow, makes all the difference. Cloud must sense it, too, whether through their connection, or just the expression that must be on Sephiroth’s face, and he falters, a tremor in his hand. If Sephiroth has anything left to say, any last bid for his life, he needs to say it now. He struggles to find words, decides to let his instinct take over.

“Would you mind putting on the kettle?” Sephiroth asks no one in particular and then freezes. Both Cloud and Elliott glance at him incredulously. 

Well. So much for instinct.

When neither of them move, he stands, shakily, his hand on Elliott’s shoulder for support. “I will do it.”

He takes a step forward, and Elliott mirrors his movements, keeping himself in front of Cloud like he’s protecting Sephiroth from a wild animal. Cloud’s watching him with hard eyes, but his sword hasn’t moved from where it was pointed at Sephiroth’s throat moments ago. Small victories. Sephiroth pretends that it doesn’t take all of his strength to move his legs forward, adopting an air as haughty and self-possessed as he always has.

It’s only for a moment, but Cloud’s shoulders relax when Sephiroth changes his demeanor. Interesting. He walks to the kitchen and puts the kettle on and pulls out three mismatched mugs, keeping his back angled away from Cloud. 

“Sephiroth, what’s going on?” Elliott asks, his voice low. He isn’t aware, yet, that Cloud is enhanced and can hear everything he’s saying, can probably hear the steady pounding of his heart in his chest. “Who is he?” 

Sephiroth can sense Cloud taking up the entire doorway to the kitchen, and forces himself not to glance at him. 

“My archnemesis,” Sephiroth says calmly. Cloud says nothing to that, which is as much agreement as any he can hope to get. 

“Your what,” Elliott says. “You can’t be serious.” 

“I am,” Sephiroth says. Elliott looks back toward Cloud and Sephorith memorizes the burn patterns on the outside of the kettle, trying not to think about the tangle of fear and anticipation warring in his chest. The kettle begins to hiss and Sephiroth pours the tea with shaking hands. 

He hands a mug to Elliott, who accepts it out of habit, his attention completely diverted. Sephiroth steels himself and steps away from Elliott, ostensibly the only thing keeping him alive right now, and walks towards Cloud. He isn’t stupid enough to hand it to him; Cloud can’t take it anyway, his sword still held loosely in both hands even if it’s pointed at the floor. His grip tightens as Sephiroth comes closer, thet well-worn leather of his gloves creaking on the hilt. Sephiroth clenches his jaw and places the mug down at the seat closest to Cloud at the rickety kitchen table, mug handle facing towards him as an invitation, before taking the one across from him, crossing one knee over the other as if it is the most natural thing in the world, having tea with the man who intends to kill him. 

“Please, sit.” 

Elliott snaps out of his reverie and rushes to sit at Sephiroth’s right, between him and Cloud. Cloud doesn’t move.

“I didn’t poison it,” Sephiroth says, “if that’s your concern.” 

They both know it isn’t, but the statement is absurd enough to bring something other than blankness into his expression.

“Not really your style,” Cloud agrees, voice steely. “If you’re trying to trick me, it won’t work.” 

“I’m sure saying so won’t convince you, but I am not,” Sephiroth says. “I simply thought--” 

Nothing. He didn’t think anything. He has no idea why he’s doing this or what it will accomplish. And perhaps it’s this bewilderment, presumably clear on his face, that answers a question he wasn’t even aware Cloud was asking, because after a long moment, he shifts his sword to his dominant hand, pulls out the chair, and sits down. 

~

They share the tea in silence. Elliott drinks his primly and adopts a tight, rigid posture, obviously trying to keep from speaking. Cloud, to Sephiroth’s surprise, drinks the tea after some hesitation. He’d made a strong bergamot tea, a flavor he remembers Zack preferring, and it’s obvious Cloud enjoys it as well. Satisfaction rises from deep within him, the same satisfaction he gets from seeing Elliott sneaking second helpings of dinner, despite complaints of being too full. He tries to quell it -- Cloud enjoying the tea he prepared will not change his mind. It shouldn’t. 

He wishes it would. 

It’s then that Elliott’s agitation reaches its threshold. “What’s your name?” Elliott says, addressing Cloud. “If I’m going to die, I’d like to know my would-be killer’s name. That seems more...polite.”

Cloud gives him a sideways look, the mako-glow in his eyes even more apparent in the dim light of the kitchen. “Cloud Strife,” he says. “And I’m not going to kill you.” 

“You’ll have to, if you intend to kill Sephiroth,” Elliott says with a fierce resolve. 

This only seems to anger Cloud. “Elliott,” Sephiroth says, placing his mug down on the table. 

“What the hell is this?” Cloud growls. “Why the hell are you here, giving me...giving me tea. Fuck, why am I drinking it…?” He slams the mug on the table and pushes it away from himself, disgusted. 

“I don’t know,” Sephiroth says. It’s the only honest thing he can think to say. 

“How long.” 

It’s more of a demand than a question. “A year,” Sephiroth says. “I’m a farmer. I sell my produce in the nearby town. This is my house.” 

Cloud stares, incredulous, and Sephiroth doesn’t blame him. It’s so surreal that on some days, he isn’t even sure he’s actually alive. 

“A farmer.” 

“Yes. And this is Elliott. My…” He doesn’t know how to quantify what they are, not without labels that seem either too trite or too simplistic. He decides not to finish the sentence. 

That only makes Cloud’s agitation greater, his eyes wilder. He turns toward Elliott. “Is he--” Cloud stops, and this time, it’s Cloud who is slightly shaking. “Are you controlling him?” 

Sephiroth’s stomach drops, and a slow rising horror grips him. “No,” Sephiroth says with vehemence. He doesn’t know how to communicate the revulsion he feels at the thought, not to Cloud, not after everything. 

“Controlling me?” Elliott says. He scoffs, the sound so derisive and offended it reminds him of Genesis. “Absolutely not! And I resent you insinuating that my feelings for him are anything but my own!” 

“Your feelings--” Cloud says and then laughs. He laughs until the sounds start to strain into something more raw and jagged, and he’s near something like a panic attack. 

“Cloud,” Sephiroth begins to say, everything in him cold, but Cloud is already standing up on unsteady legs and staggering out of the kitchen. They hear his heavy footfalls go to the front door and then onto the porch. 

Sephiroth follows him without thinking. He finds him in the flower beds just below the porch on his hands and knees, his sword in the dirt beside him, coughing as he heaves in breath. 

“You don’t deserve this,” Cloud says, his fury apparent in every line of his body. “You don’t get to have a quiet, peaceful life when the rest of us...when Zack and Aerith…” 

Any response that Sephiroth might have had is eclipsed by Cloud moving so fast that Sephiroth doesn’t realize he’s no longer on the ground until there’s a glove hand around his throat and the point of a sword pressing against his stomach. His hands come up on instinct to grab Cloud’s arm, to try and pull it away from him, his fingernails digging into his skin, and Cloud jerks him upward, slamming him against the side of the house. He chokes, unable to draw breath, and hears Elliott yelling his name, rushing forward with Sephiroth’s discarded katana, and then a crash as Cloud disarms him without even looking at him. 

Sephiroth can feel darkness pressing around the edges of his eyes as consciousness starts to fail him. This body isn’t strong enough to defend him, it’s not even strong enough to survive without oxygen for a full minute, and he thinks about how many people he’d killed in this exact same way, in Wutai and beyond, who he’d deemed too weak to live. Too weak-willed, too stupid, too slow, too human to stop him, inconveniences that he’d forgotten the moment their hearts had stopped. Chess pieces. Shrina may have been the one to set up the board, but he had always believed that it was him playing the game. 

What arrogance. He had never been better than them, any of them; worse, he’d been the only one who hadn’t seen it coming. The pawn they sacrificed last. 

He forces himself to pull his hands away from Cloud’s arm. He reaches out a hand and connects with Cloud’s shoulder, sliding down so that it is resting over the last wound he’d inflicted on him, just above his heart. Cloud’s eyes are swimming in his vision, dancing like orbs of materia, his face blurring. His fingers clench in the fabric of Cloud’s shirt, pain bursting behind his eyes, around his neck, in his head. He lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as pure crack after playing straight 32 hours of Stardew Valley over a weekend with very little sleep, and somehow, it became a serious introspection piece? 
> 
> Thanks so much to my betas, @alittleharder and A, who coached me through all of my what-even-is-this moments.
> 
> Title credit to Emily Dickinson.


	2. Chapter 2

This time when Sephiroth wakes, it’s to a soft bed and a familiar ceiling. He wonders, for a moment, how long he’s been dead for this time before he notices the smell of the pie he had baked earlier, and the shampoo that Elliott uses in the linens he’s tucked in.

He may not be dead, but he’s not sure he’s awake. Not with Cloud sitting on the rough-hewn chair Sephiroth had made with his own hands next to the bed, his sword leaning against the wall beside him within reach. His head is bowed, elbows on his knees and hands clasped tightly enough to draw the blood from his fingers.

He doesn’t give any indication that he noticed Sephiroth awaken, but Sephiroth has spent a majority of his lives as a SOLDIER and knows that he did. Sephiroth pulls himself up, carefully, slowly, into a sitting position and rests his back against the headboard. His head hurts, but much less badly than his throat. He raises his hand to it and it’s tender to the touch, but much less damaged than someone with Cloud’s strength should have inflicted. _He must have used a Cure_, Sephiroth thinks, surprised.

“Sephiroth!” Elliott says, rushing into the room before Sephiroth can think about what to do next. He’s sporting a nasty bruise just below his left eye where he must have hit some of the furniture when Cloud had forced him back, but otherwise seems uninjured. Even out of control, Cloud had shown incredible restraint and he’s grateful. Had he been in the same position, he would not have, and that realization makes something churn in his stomach.

Elliott chatters nervously, checking him over, asking questions that don’t need answers. His hands are shaking as he traces over what must be fingers-sized bruises on his throat, and there’s a wildness in his eyes that Sephiroth had seen countless times in the eyes of the newest recruits in Wutai when they had first learned the true meaning of violence. Had he ever looked like that? He doesn’t know; when he was young he tended to avoid mirrors, unable to face himself even then.

There’s a scratch on the floor and Cloud stands. Elliott’s back is to him and doesn’t notice, but Sephiroth watches him take his sword and sling it over his back in a move so reminiscent of Zack that it hurts, and leave the room.

Sephiroth manages to calm Elliott down enough to assure him that he’s fine, that Elliott should return to his cabin for a few days. It’s a testament to Elliott’s fear and his humility at the fact that there is nothing he can do when it comes to Cloud that he doesn’t argue. Sephiroth is oddly proud of him and thinks, suddenly, that he would have made a good SOLDIER. He immediately banishes the thought.

Elliott packs his things and promises to return to check on him. He kisses Sephiroth, tender and meaningful, and then leaves, the front door closing with an echoing snap.

It’s only then that Sephiroth leaves the bed. He knows Cloud’s still here; if he had intended to leave, he wouldn’t have waited for Sephiroth to wake up. Sure enough, when Sephiroth crosses into the living room, he can see the bike sitting outside exactly where it had been before.

He finds Cloud crouched on the back porch, offering an outstretched hand to his cat, who has already melted at the attention, batting at Cloud’s dangling fingers and meowing. Cloud’s other hand goes to the hilt of his sword as he hears Sephiroth approach behind him, but he doesn’t turn around.

Sephiroth hovers by the door, fighting his instinct to stay beyond the reach of Cloud’s massive sword, but he fights it and draws closer as a gesture of trust he doesn’t expect to be returned.

He struggles to find something to say. Cloud, to his surprise, speaks first.

“You named your cat ‘Knife’?” Cloud asks, flashing the little name tag on her collar at him.

Sephiroth refuses to be embarrassed, though it’s clear from Cloud’s tone that he should be. “It’s a single syllable, and unique enough that she would recognize it if she ever got lost,” Sephiroth says. His voice is gravelly, and barely there, but it still manages to capture his indignance. “It also respects her high prowess as a hunter without overestimating her abilities.”

“So if she was a little bit bigger, you would have named her ‘Sword’?” Cloud asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sephiroth says. “That’s far too general. I would have named her ‘Falchion’ or ‘Jian’, depending on her skill.”

The sound Cloud makes is almost pained, but since Sephiroth can’t see his face, he doesn’t know what it means. By the time he stands and turns, hand still hovering behind his back, his expression has flattened to its usual hardness.

“Who the fuck are you?” Cloud says, and whatever incredulity that had once been in his voice has yielded to something quieter and deadly serious.

“You know who I am, Cloud,” Sephiroth says. Cloud flinches at the sound of his name and Sephiroth resists the urge to take a step back.

“The hell I do,” Cloud snaps. “What is this? What are you trying to do?”

“Nothing nefarious.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m just trying to live my life,” Sephiroth says. “Quietly. At peace.”

“And you think you deserve that?” Cloud says. “After everything you’ve done?”

“No,” Sephiroth says. He can feel the anger and the guilt begin to well up in him, and crash over all the rational arguments he had crafted over months to explain himself if he ever saw Cloud again. “I don’t. How could I? I will never be able to atone for what I have done. I will never deserve this.”

There is something like surprise in Cloud’s eyes but it’seasily overcome by anger. “But you’ll take it anyway? Just like that?”

“What else would you have me do?” Sephiroth asks, but he’s finding it difficult to keep his voice even.

The low rumble of his voice must trigger something in Cloud, because he finally draws his sword, his eyes the same flashing blue he saw as Cloud tried to kill him before. Knife, who had been watching them with an agitated flop of her tail, hisses and darts off the porch. “Rot in hell.”

But Sephiroth’s sense of self-preservation has fled with his reason, and he takes a menacing step forward, close enough that he can feel the tip of Cloud’s blade against the thin fabric of his shirt. The memories he still has are clearest when the subject is Cloud, but somehow, he has forgotten how truly _irritating_ the man is until now.

“Then why didn’t you kill me?” Sephiroth shouts. Or, at least, he tries -- his voice is still a mess from his nearly crushed larynx and he coughs through the end, clutching his throat. Cloud watches him struggle, his swordless hand twitching as if he intends to reach towards him and thinks better of it.

Cloud is, without a doubt, a hypocrite.

Cloud doesn’t respond. But then, Sephiroth hadn’t expected him to. They stare at each other for a long, breathless minute before Cloud steps back and sheaths his sword in one motion. He jumps off the porch and into the grass with as much grace as Knife had earlier, and disappears around the side of the house. A moment later, the roar of his motorbike starts up and Sephiroth watches it peel out along the dirt road, kicking up a storm of dust. A complex knot of emotions settles in Sephiroth’s stomach.

Cloud’s not leaving for good, that much he knows. As long as Sephiroth’s alive, Cloud won’t dare let him out of his sight. He hates the idea of being observed and under constant surveillance, but another part of him thinks that this is the opportunity he’s been waiting for. To atone. To prove that he can build a life worth living.

Sephiroth watches the dust fully settle before he goes inside in search of pain relievers for his throat and a moment to himself to try and stop the shaking in his hands. He won’t be alone for long.

~

Sephiroth is in the kitchen washing dishes when Cloud returns. He hears him turn off the engine and open the door, the screen smacking into the frame, and then the pound of footsteps along the floor. Sephiroth turns in time to see him drop what looks like a large bag of camping supplies onto the ground outside the door frame.

“I’m taking the couch,” Cloud says in a way that is just _daring_ Sephiroth to argue.

Sephiroth sighs inwardly. In some ways, Cloud is painfully predictable. “There’s a spare bedroom--”

“I wasn’t asking.”

Sephiroth clenches his jaw to keep from responding, and turns back towards the dishes. He hears Cloud dump his belongings on one of the chairs, which groans under the weight, and the scraping of furniture as he moves it around the room, no doubt to have a perfect vantage point of Sephiroth’s door. It’s invasive and rude, but Sephiroth is willing to concede this to him, if it will make things easier.

“What have you done about the window?” Sephiroth asks as he dries his hand on a towel. His living room, once perfectly situated in the most energetic configuration possible for an L-shaped room, is now a mess -- the couch has been moved up almost flush with the fireplace, and the chairs have been shoved into opposite corners. The coffee table is covered in supplies, including sword polish and a few cans of beans. His sword balances at the edge of it, always within reach.

“What?” Cloud says, his body screaming defensiveness as he throws some blankets over the arm of the couch.

“The window,” Sephiroth says. “If your redecorating is meant to keep me from stealing away in the night, then you should be checking the bedroom window. I’m much more likely to escape that way.”

Cloud’s eyes narrow. “Are you planning to?”

“No,” Sephiroth says. “But you clearly believe I will.”

Cloud has no answer to that. Instead, he watches him with a hard look as he shakes out his blanket and lays it over the couch cushions and then proceeds to sit with his arms crossed, challenging Sephiroth to say or do anything else. Sephiroth doesn’t give him the satisfaction. He goes back in the kitchen to hang up the dish towel, and then proceeds to his room without so much as acknowledging Cloud again. He especially doesn’t acknowledge the sound of footsteps pausing outside his window before returning inside.

The following days are much the same.

Cloud follows him like an errant shadow, and Sephiroth, largely, ignores him. It’s melon season, so Sephiroth spends most of his time tending to them; he’d been too inexperienced last year to succeed in growing them and wasted nearly all of his seeds. He’d researched them, the perfect conditions, how he needed to till the soil, and when they needed to be watered, and his efforts are paying off. He feels Cloud’s wary gaze on him as he checks them for pests, and makes sure that the fence he’d put up around them are effectively dissuading the wildlife. He also doesn’t miss the way Cloud’s eyes seem to linger at the faded bruises, finger-shaped bruises around his throat when it becomes clear that they’re not healing as fast he’s expecting.

In the heat of the afternoons, he returns inside and makes himself a simple lunch that he doesn’t offer to Cloud after the first time, when he’d been met with cold hostility. Instead, he sits on the porch and reads up on the latest tools and diligently marks what he’ll need to last him the summer and mentally calculates expenses for fall. Elliott, true to his word, comes by every few days during this time, but he doesn’t linger, bringing battered novels and a palpable relief every time he knocks on the door and Sephiroth answers, uninjured. Sephiroth’s moods always improve when he stops by, which seems to have an inverse effect on Cloud’s, and the afternoons that Elliott visits always melt into bitter, silent stalemates.

In the evenings, on Elliott-days or otherwise, Sephiroth makes dinner, and if he has extra ingredients from the day, bakes something sweet. This is the only time that Cloud leaves him alone, content to listen to Sephiroth rather than watch him. Sephiroth isn’t sure what he does with his time; something tells him that if he tries to check, his brief daily respite will disappear.

It’s nearly two weeks before they speak to each other again in anything but cursory, short sentences usually ignored by the other person. Surprisingly, it’s Cloud who breaks their standoff.

“Those ones are ready,” Cloud comments when they’re out in the fields, this time checking on the blueberries. They have flourished in the abnormally wet summer, and Sephiroth is having difficulty keeping up with the output.

Sephiroth follows to where he points and then goes back to picking from the bushes in front of him. “They’re not,” Sephiroth says. “That row needs another week.”

“No, they don’t,” Cloud argues. “And for that matter, the ones you’re saying are ready are a few days past ripe. They’re going to be bland.”

“They’re not _bland_,” Sephiroth says. Cloud stomps over and plucks a handful of berries out of his basket and pops them in his mouth.

“Bland,” Cloud says, tossing the other ones on the ground.

Irritation ripples through Sephiroth, even more so when he takes one from his basket and realizes that Cloud is right. Cloud’s smug look makes him want to punch him.

“How can you tell?” Sephiroth asks. If he’s going to be upstaged on his own farm, he might as well learn from it.

Cloud looks surprised. “Why are you asking me?”

“You said they were bland, and they were bland. I assume that you have a reason for knowing that.”

“Maybe I have a special connection with blueberries,” Cloud says, in that sardonic way of his that Sephiroth finds grating. He gives him his most unimpressed look until Cloud waves a hand, relenting.

“It’s not hard,” he says. “This is a special kind of blueberry that only grows in certain climates.” He reaches out and flips up the underside of the leaf. It’s a dark green that looks like the underside of every leaf Sephiroth has seen. “See the color? It’s the same color as the top of the leaf, which means it’s past its time.”

He walks over to the other row and Sephiroth follows him and watches attentively as Cloud lifts up the leaf. It’s much lighter than the other one. “These just ripened. They’ll probably be good for another day or two, but not a week.”

Sephiroth catalogues that information and then picks one of the berries. It tastes fresh and bright, a touch sour, but the flavor is stronger and more fragrant than his had tasted. He turns his gaze to Cloud, sure that he’s waiting for an apology, or an admission that Sephiroth will not provide, but Cloud isn’t looking at him. He’s pulled out his shirt, enough so that Sephiroth can see the fair skin of his toned stomach beneath, and is using it as a makeshift basket, systematically going down from bush to bush, saving as many berries as he’s popping into his mouth. Sephiroth should be annoyed that he’s eating potentially three days’ worth of earnings, but all he can do is stare.

Later, when Sephiroth is making a tart out of the excess blueberries, Cloud his sentry at the kitchen table, his curiosity overcomes common sense and he asks Cloud about it.

“Where did you learn about blueberries?” Sephiroth asks. Cloud, who is wiping down the smallest of his swords on the kitchen table despite Sephiroth’s protests, doesn’t answer for a long moment.

“They grow wild on Mt. Nibel,” Cloud says quietly, his gaze distant. “I used to eat them when I’d get lost in the woods and miss lunch when I was young. Ma, she would always--”

Sephirth’s breath cuts short as Cloud stops abruptly and stands up. He makes a sound, almost a growl, angry, as if Sephiroth was the one who had said something and grabs his sword, storming back into the living room.

Sephiroth lets him go. By the time he’s completed the tart and gone to clean up for the night, Cloud is already laying on the couch, his back to the rest of the room, though he’s too tense to be sleeping. Sephiroth bites back the sarcastic remark on his tongue and thinks of the trooper who once corrected him about wildlife on a lonely mountain and wonders how, after everything, Cloud manages to keep these parts of himself.

~

Autumn is Sephiroth’s favorite season. It reminds him of the few times his, Angeal’s, and Genesis’ leave all happened to coincide and they had visited many places that they had visited as SOLDIERs but not as civilians. They’d gone to Gold Saucer when they were barely of age and lost nearly a full years’ wages between them in Wonder Square when Sephiroth wouldn’t stop playing the motorcycle racing sim until he beat Genesis’ high score. Later, Angeal and Genesis brought him to Banora and introduced him to their parents. Angeal’s mother had been particularly kind to him; she’d told him to come visit next time he was in the area and snuck an extra pumpkin scone into his things when they were saying goodbye.

Sometimes he still can’t quite believe how badly things turned out.

His best recipes are the ones with his autumn crops as well, and they’re the ones he’s most likely to actually taste. Most of his baking is funneled back into the community via the farmer’s market, far too sweet for him to enjoy, but during the fall he makes more savory goods and spoils himself. He bakes cranberry scones, and fresh cornbread, and anything that has the word “pumpkin” in the title. He makes artichoke dip, and garlic bok choy with fresh salmon he catches in the river.

Sephiroth’s birthday is also an autumn event. Birthdays had been all but a foreign concept to him; Hojo had only used it as a marker to measure Sephiroth’s success and had refused to tell him when it was to rid him of anything as weak as sentimentality. He hadn’t ever been concerned about it until he met Zack, who took birthdays very seriously. The year he’d found out that Sephiroth didn’t celebrate them, Zack had chosen a date for him, in the autumn, declared it his official birthday from then on, and had dragged Sephiroth all over Midgar for a week to make up for all the birthdays he’d missed. It is one of Sephiroth’s fondest memories.

Elliott’s birthday is in the autumn too, 12 days before his own. Last year, Sephiroth had made him a simple cake out of the scarce ingredients he could scrounge up, in debt and still struggling with making things grow, but this year, he is much more prepared, despite Elliott’s half-hearted protests that he doesn’t need anything when he’d come to help Sephiroth prepare his autumn beds.

Elliott’s favorite meal is crab cakes, so Sephiroth plans to make a recipe that he’s been working on for the better part of six months for his birthday dinner. He pulls his crab pots out of the shed and goes down to the beach a week beforehand early in the morning -- much earlier than Elliott will be up, to ensure it’s a surprise -- and borrows Willy’s row boat. Cloud comes with him without asking why, surlier than usual. Cloud, like Elliott, is not a morning person, despite the fact that he's almost always up before Sephiroth; his hatred of mornings is enough that when Sephiroth offers him coffee, despite not drinking it himself, Cloud accepts it without complaint. He also doesn’t thank him for it, but Sephiroth is well past getting worked up over Cloud’s reticence.

There’s a slight breeze, and the small waves lick up the sides of the boat in a soothing, rhythmic pattern as Sephiroth loads the bait and crab pots into the boat, stacked neatly on top of each other. He climbs in without grace and with no little relief when he doesn’t fall in like he usually does. Cloud would never let him live it down.

He chooses the seat closest to the bow and sits, situating the oars for maximum rowing efficiency. Once he’s done and double checks his supplies, he glances back up at Cloud who is still standing on the dock, looking warily at the boat like it might try to attack him.

“Well?” Sephiroth says after Cloud doesn’t move for a full minute. “Are you waiting for permission?”

“I don’t need your permission to do anything,” Cloud says.

“Wonderful,” Sephiroth says dryly. “Then get in.”

“I’m good.”

Sephiroth shoots him a confused look that’s mixed with exasperation. “You followed me here,” Sephiroth says. “I assumed you wanted to go.”

“I never _want_ to go anywhere with you,” Cloud says. “I’ll be able to see you from here.”

“That’s true whenever I’m on the farm, or making food, or folding laundry,” Sephiroth says. “But you always insist on staying with me for all of those things.”

“That’s different,” Cloud says.

“How?”

“It just is!” Cloud says in a burst of frustration. “Leave it alone.”

“No, now I’m curious,” Sephiroth says. Cloud is always either infuriatingly calm or stubbornly petulant, but he rarely raises his voice, and it’s been weeks since Sephiroth learned how far he can press before he pushes Cloud over his limit. “Are you afraid of crabs? Or maybe the ocean? Or boats? The boat can’t hurt you, Cloud. It’s made of wood.” _Are you afraid of me, _is a question that he’s not ready to ask.

“Shut up,” Cloud snaps. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

Sephiroth raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. The smug look on his face is enough to antagonize him into speaking, as Sephiroth knew it would.

“I get motion sick, ok?” Cloud admits. “And boats...are the worst.”

Interesting. There’s the tug of familiarity about it, but he stops himself before he can get too lost in his labyrinthine memories and logs that information away.

“Ah,” Sephiroth says as he reaches over and unmoors from the dock, putting the oars in the water. “You could have just said.”

He rows away before Cloud leaps off the dock and tries to strangle him again like it looks like he wants to.

They come back the next morning, and Sephiroth finds himself sharing the boat with no less than 15 very large, very sharp crabs, and that’s after he throws back the small ones and the females, to avoid depleting the population.

He begins cleaning them on the dock, with half his attention toward Elliott’s cabin. It makes the work slower and more arduous than it normally is, and it must annoy Cloud because he sits down beside the bucket of crabs and fishes one out, swearing as a claw catches his skin.

“You’re taking forever,” Cloud explains, despite Sephiroth not asking. “It isn’t that hard.”

By the time they return to the house, Sephiroth takes his biggest pots outside and cooks the crab, enjoying the cool afternoon and the blissful, Cloud-free hour he’s been spontaneously gifted. He sets up one of his early attempts at a table on the porch when he’s done, drapes a drop cloth over it, and begins cracking the crab. He expects Cloud to join him, but what he doesn’t expect is for him to drag one of the chairs from the kitchen outside and settle across from him, taking a crab claw and cracking it with just the strength in his hand, pointedly not looking at Sephiroth as he puts the crab meat in the bowl in front of him.

Sephiroth almost says something, but Cloud seems to have a preternatural sense for his comments now and looks up long enough to glare at him in warning. They crack the rest of the crabs in silence, and Sephiroth, as a gesture of peace, does not laugh at Cloud when he tries to sneak a piece of meat and then spits it back out with a horrified look on his face. Apparently, he doesn’t like crab.

On Elliott’s birthday, Sephiroth spends most of the day cooking and baking and finishing up chores around the farm that he hadn’t gotten to in the morning. Cloud, for the most part, leaves him alone; whether the crabbing trip changed something about their usual dynamic, or Cloud’s just tired of dogging his every step for once, Sephiroth isn’t sure, but it allows him to get fully lost in his work. It’s late afternoon before he realizes that he hasn’t seen Cloud most of the day and he goes to search for him as his cake finishes baking.

He finds Cloud out front, working on his bike. He’s crouched down on the far side of it, a tool set laid out in the dirt beside him. There’s a loud clink of metal as Cloud tosses a wrench back onto the pile and Sephiroth clears his throat.

“What?” Cloud says without preamble. “I’m busy.”

Sephiroth is far too dignified to roll his eyes. “Elliott is visiting tonight for dinner,” Sephiroth says from the porch.

Cloud peers at him over the seat of the bike. There’s a streak of grease on his throat and in one of the spikes of his hair. It’s oddly charming, in a way Cloud usually isn’t. “Why do you think I care?”

Sephiroth tries to not lose his temper. “I don’t think you do. It was merely a courtesy, seeing as you are sharing the space.”

Cloud stares at him in that way that makes Sephiroth feel like he’s missed something obvious, like somehow _he _is the one being strange for observing proper social etiquette. “I forced my way into your house,” Cloud says slowly, like he’s not sure Sephiroth will understand him.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Sephiroth says with exasperation. “He’ll be here at 6.”

Elliott arrives with his usual tardiness and a whirlwind of explanation -- something about Leah and an ex-boyfriend and an art exhibit, this time -- that Sephiroth used to find grating but now is strangely refreshing. It’s been a while since they’ve seen each other, and distance has smoothed some of the rougher edges. He takes the wine that Elliott brought (starfruit, Sephiroth’s favorite) and his coat, stealing a kiss when he’s sure they’re out of Cloud’s sight, though Sephiroth’s not sure why he cares. 

Dinner is already on the table, and after the first bite, Elliott showers him with ceaseless compliments that make Sephiroth’s ears feel hot and pride settle in his chest. The crab cake recipe is a complete triumph (Elliott’s words), and Sephiroth has to agree. It’s light and fresh, and the dip he made to go with it is a perfect compliment to the sweetness of the crab. He has really outdone himself.

“When did you find the time?” Elliott asks him as he goes for seconds even as he’s still finishing the one on his plate, which as far as Sephiroth is concerned, is the best compliment he could receive. “I know you’ve been busy with the start of the season. And I didn’t see you at the beach at all last week.”

“Not all of us sleep until noon,” Sephiroth says with amusement.

“Taking advantage of my writerly schedule, I see,” Elliott says. “I cannot choose when inspiration strikes.”

Sephiroth doesn’t try to hide his smile. “Of course.”

Elliott takes a few more bites of his crab cakes, thoughtful. “I’ve missed you the past few weeks, you know,” Elliott confesses after a long moment.

Sephiroth sighs. He’d missed him, too. “Things have not been...ideal,” Sephiroth agrees. He wants to say more, maybe promise that things will go back to normal soon, but he doesn’t believe that’s true. Cloud is clearly not going anywhere, and Sephiroth has no intention of telling him to go, his guilt at war with how irritating Cloud is. He would pay his dues and let Cloud decide if it’s enough, though he also has no intention of disclosing to Cloud how much power he’s really giving him. Sephiroth’s repentant, not insane.

“You have been alright, haven’t you?” Elliott asks as Sephiroth takes his plate and then begins brewing coffee and taking dessert out of the refrigerator. “With...everything.”

With Cloud still here, he means. Elliott is many things, but subtle he is not. “I’m fine,” Sephiroth says honestly. “Aside from the second shadow I’ve acquired.”

“He does follow you everywhere,” Elliott says. “Like a raincloud. Or a very angry puppy.”

There’s a pang of what was once hurt but now is something closer to wistfulness in Sephiroth’s chest, and he’s inordinately glad that Cloud isn’t inside to overhear them. Zack is one of the many subjects that Sephiroth does not bring up with Cloud, and the comparison is much closer than he’s comfortable with.

“I don’t understand why you’re allowing him to stay,” Elliott continues.

“I’m not allowing him to do anything,” Sephiroth says. “He’s decided to stay, and so he is.”

“But you haven’t told him to leave, have you?”

“No,” Sephiroth concedes, though he can feel his muscles start to tense. “He and I...have history. It is difficult to explain. But I owe him this much.” So much more, but Elliott doesn’t need to know that, now or ever.

“I...suppose I can understand that,” Elliott says. “As long as that’s all you owe him.”

Elliott’s tone is strange as he says it and it takes a second for Sephiroth to recognize what it is. When he realizes it, he almost laughs.

He’s _jealous_. Of Cloud. Sephiroth finds it both flattering and incredibly trite. The idea that Cloud is interested in him at all, or ever would be, is patently ridiculous. Cloud barely tolerates him, and the most he is hoping for is that Cloud will eventually find him innocuous enough to leave him alone. He doesn’t expect atonement, or even friendship -- he barely expects mercy. But he can’t explain that to Elliott without having to field questions he is in no way prepared to answer.

“Tell me about your book,” Sephiroth says instead, bringing a slice of cake and a cup of coffee to Elliott, who is distracted enough by the food and his favorite subject that he drops his previous line of inquiry.

They talk until Elliott’s coffee cup is empty and the dessert is long gone. After, Elliott glances at the door, obviously checking for Cloud even though Sephiroth can still hear him tinkering on his motorcycle outside, and then leans over, and kisses him, sweet and languid. “Thank you for dinner,” Elliott says.

“It was my pleasure,” Sephiroth says. Sephiroth kisses him again, a little more insistent, and no less teasing. Elliott crowds in closer, and he can feel his heart beat beneath his fingers and the warmth of his skin.

“Well,” Elliott says as he breaks their kiss, his hand wandering further up Sephiroth’s thigh underneath the table, the suggestion in his voice making warmth curl low in Sephiroth’s stomach, his intention clear.“Shall we?”

He stands up, and Sephiroth takes their plates and places them in the sink, collecting himself, as Elliott wanders out into the living room. There’s a murmuring of voices as Cloud and Elliott cross paths, and the accompanying smack of the screen door as Cloud comes in from outside.

Cloud’s sitting on the couch when Sephiroth crosses into the living room himself. Elliott’s no longer there; he must be waiting outside for him, still reluctant to be in a room alone with Cloud for any length of time. Understandable.

“Where are you going?” Cloud demands as it becomes clear that Elliott isn’t the only one who’s leaving.

“Elliott’s cabin,” Sephiroth says. He knows this will not go over well, but Sephiroth’s blood is abuzz with desire and wine, so he doesn’t care as much as he should. “I’d say make yourself at home, but you’ve had no qualms about doing so already, with or without me saying so.”

Cloud stands up abruptly, throwing the dirty rag he was using to clean his grease-stained hands onto the couch. Sephiroth tries not to grind his teeth. He just reupholstered. “No way. You can both just stay here,” Cloud says.

“Oh?” Sephiroth says, surprised that Cloud would be so accommodating. “So then you’re leaving?”

“No?” Cloud says, obviously confused and trying not to show it. “Why would I leave?”

Of course. He’s not being accommodating at all. Just oblivious. Sephiroth isn’t sure how he can be _this _oblivious, all things considered, but then again, Cloud has made it very clear that he doesn’t believe any of this is real. For Sephiroth to suggest that he may have very normal human desires wouldn’t be very palatable to the narrative Cloud is trying to create. The thought leaves a sour taste in his mouth, but for some reason, it doesn’t get to him in the way it did even a few weeks ago. If Cloud doesn’t believe him, that’s to his detriment, Sephiroth supposes.

“I didn’t think you’d want us to stay, considering,” Sephiroth says as he turns away to put on his coat.

“Considering what?”

“How thin the walls are.”

That doesn’t appear to clear it up for him. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Sephiroth might have felt embarrassed having to explain it, except he knows it’s Cloud who is going to be infinitely more embarrassed when Sephiroth has to spell it out for him, and his pettiness overcomes his self-consciousness. He pulls his hair out of the collar of the jacket and turns, so he can get the full effect, and with as straight of a face as he can manage, he says, “We’re going to have sex, Cloud."

The result is as perfect as he’d hoped it would be. Cloud’s eyes widen at the realization, his lips parting as he struggles to say something, and then he _blushes_, red crawling up from his neckline and spilling onto his face. “Oh,” he manages finally. “Right.”

“Any other questions? No?” Sephiroth asks, knowing Cloud won’t respond. “Good. I’ll be back in the morning.”

He puts on his shoes and then strides to the door, opening it without turning back.

“The rest of the cake is yours, if you want it,” Sephiroth says as he leaves, even though he had intended to eat it himself -- it’s a spice cake with cream cheese frosting that is _delectable_, if he does say so himself -- but he’s so satisfied with the mortification on Cloud’s face that he’s willing to sacrifice it for a dramatic exit.

Elliott is waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs, amusement underlining the worry on his face. “You really shouldn’t antagonize him,” Elliott says.

_You’d know if I was really antagonizing him_, Sephiroth almost says, but it’s a little too raw, too close to something he might’ve said before, that it makes his stomach roll uncomfortably and he stops himself. “I don’t do it any more than necessary,” Sephiroth says instead, offering Elliott his hand.

~

His own birthday is much less of a romantic affair. Elliott is out of town at a book reading that he had nearly skipped until Sephiroth had found out about it and insisted that he go. Elliott had promised, over and over, that he would make it up to him, but Sephiroth had meant it when he said it was fine.

It certainly is easier this way -- Elliott tends to favor the dramatics, much like Genesis used to, and Sephiroth is sure that if they try to pull another stunt like the one they did the night of Elliott’s birthday, Cloud will actually try and kill him. When he’d gotten back the morning after, calmer than he’d felt in weeks and aching in all the right places, Cloud’s anxiety had been palpable enough that Sephiroth had actually been offended, though he knew he had no right to be. Which is precisely what Cloud had said when he’d told him that. The resulting standoff had quickly destroyed his good mood and whatever progress they’d made up to that point.

He decides to spend his birthday alone, or as alone as he can with Cloud’s constant hovering, which has only gotten worse. He takes his time making breakfast and starts his morning chores later than normal at a less grueling pace. The work is pleasant like this, even if it takes longer than usual, but he has nowhere to be today, no expectations to meet, and he settles in for a relaxing, indulgent day.

He’s just checking the progress of his eggplants after coming back from feeding the chickens when he spots a familiar figure coming up the road and goes out to meet her.

“Hey,” Abigail says when she’s close enough. She has abandoned her dark eyeliner for green and blue eyeshadow, her purple hair newly dyed and matching the light-washed skinny jeans she’s replaced her dark tattered denim with. “I, uh, brought you this.” She thrusts a potted plant into his hands without looking at him, though Sephiroth can still see the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks.

“More gifts?” Sephiroth says, as much teasing in his tone as gratitude.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, shooting him a glare that makes it clear he is _not_ meant to bring up the fishing pole again.

Sephiroth decides to take pity on her. “Thank you,” he says.

She waves his thanks away, though it’s clear she’s pleased. “Mom had extra clippings from her tea plant that she planted a while ago, and I thought, since you like tea, that you might like it. She told me to tell you to keep it inside and don’t let it get too much direct sunlight.”

“Noted.”

She nods, and then glances around before she leans into whisper. “I heard you had a guest.”

Sephiroth sighs inwardly. He’d been avoiding town for the most part, and had convinced Cloud to at least stay out of sight while he worked at the farmer’s market to keep everyone from asking too many questions, but he knows it was too much to ask to keep him a secret for long. “I do. He’s an old...acquaintance.”

“I heard he was your archnemesis,” she says and, not for the first time, Sephiroth reminds himself to not say anything to Elliott, ever again. “Heard he’s hot, too.”

She isn’t wrong -- on either count, he thinks, and then quickly buries that thought -- but he refuses to dignify it with a response anyway. She’ll find out herself in a moment; the only reason Cloud isn’t out here now is because his PHS had started ringing and he had actually taken the call.

Sure enough, he can hear Cloud’s footsteps a moment later coming from the house, and Abigail’s eyes light up. Sephiroth sighs aloud this time.

“Oh, _damn_,” she says, mostly to herself.

“He’s too old for you,” Sephiroth says, not sure why he’s getting involved in...whatever’s happening.

“Ok, _dad_,” she says and he scowls at her. “I’m literally an adult, and I already have two boyfriends, and we’re all very happy together, for your information.” She waves over his shoulder, obviously at Cloud. “That doesn’t mean I can’t look and _appreciate_.”

Well, Sephiroth can’t argue there. Cloud must not have been paying attention, because he stops much closer than Sephiroth is sure he would’ve otherwise. Sephiroth turns and is greeted with Cloud’s usual stoicism and a hint of surprise, his gaze taking in Abigail, and the plant in Sephiroth’s hand.

“A-_hem_,” Abigail says loudly when no one says anything.

Sephiroth shoots her a look of exasperation. “Cloud, this is one of my neighbors--”

“I’m one of his friends,” Abigail interrupts, stepping forward and holding out a hand. “I’m Abigail. Cloud, right?”

“...yeah,” Cloud says, though he doesn’t shake her hand. Cloud is looking at her with equal parts apprehension and respect, which, when Sephiroth considers the women that Cloud knows, is not unjustified. Abigail, for her part, doesn’t seem to mind.

“Well,” Sephiroth says when no one says anything else. “Thank you, again, for the gift. Pass my regards along to your mother. I’m going to go put this in the house -- I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

Abigail grins at him and Cloud’s glares daggers at him, his expression seeming to say _if you leave me here, there will be consequences_. Sephiroth pretends not to notice and forces himself to stifle a laugh as Abigail says, “So, archnemesis, huh? I’ve got one of those,” and goes inside. He knows the perfect place for his new plant.

Cloud comes in a few minutes later.

“You’re an asshole,” Cloud says a few steps away from the sofa. Sephiroth smirks to himself as he adjusts his tea tree near the window.

“Did you have a good talk?” Sephiroth asks mildly and, knowing Cloud, rhetorically.

He can feel Cloud’s glare on his back, but he just continues to check the leaves and the soil. He might have to move it for the winter, depending on how much sun comes in from this window in the mornings. He’ll have to pay attention for the next few weeks.

He straightens up and turns around, wiping the soil off his hands and is surprised when Cloud is still standing there, arms crossed over his chest, expression oddly unsure.

“What is it?” Sephiroth asks when Cloud doesn’t say anything.

“It’s nothing,” Cloud says, his voice sharp.

Sephiroth just nods, not interested in trying to untangle the complicated tapestry that is Cloud Strife right now. He brushes past him towards the bathroom to wash his hands, but Cloud’s voice gives him pause.

“Abigail said it was your birthday,” Cloud says.

The attempt at small talk is odd enough for him that Sephiroth turns to give him his full attention, already on guard. “Yes, it is. Or, at least, it is the day I celebrate it. I don’t know my true birthdate.”

Cloud’s face creases darkly. “Hojo?”

“It didn’t seem fitting for a living weapon to have something as human as a birthday,” Sephiroth says, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “I believe his exact words were, ‘The only significant day you should be concerned about is the one should you ever fail me’. I was six, at the time.”

“Fucking asshole,” Cloud hisses. That, at least, is something they agree on.

“It’s all in the past now,” Sephiroth says, not sure if the assurance is more for himself or for Cloud.

“That doesn’t make it ok.”

No, it doesn’t, but he’s surprised Cloud says so. Perhaps he shouldn’t be -- Cloud has proven out that very stance the last two months in regards to Sephiroth, and his attitude now doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence that his opinions will change. But this time it’s not directed at Sephiroth, and he feels an immense sense of gratitude for someone recognizing his pain, empathizing with it. He tries not to let Cloud see; he isn’t sure he’d appreciate it.

“Why’d you choose today?” Cloud asks when Sephiroth doesn’t say anything else.

“I didn’t,” Sephiroth says. “It was chosen for me.”

“By who?”

Sephiroth knows he shouldn’t bring up Zack, even obliquely, but his birthday is one of the few things Sephiroth has left to honor him, and he’ll deal with the consequences accordingly. “A mutual acquaintance.”

It’s clear Cloud knows who he’s talking about, as Sephiroth knew he would. He looks away so that Sephiroth can’t see his face, but his arms, which had been crossed over his chest, loosen their hold and there’s none of the hostility that Sephiroth expects.

“That sounds like him,” Cloud mutters. Sephiroth silently agrees, but doesn’t say anything, not sure where this is going.

“You could have said something,” Cloud says, not nicely, but not aggressively, either. 

Sephiroth almost laughs. Even after two months of this, it never ceases to amaze him at just how contradictory Cloud can be. “And how would you have responded, if I had?” Sephiroth says. Cloud clenches his jaw and that’s answer enough. “Do not pretend to care if you don’t. It’s a disservice to us both.”

He isn’t intending to be rude, just honest, but he must miss the mark somewhat because by the time he returns from washing his hands, Cloud is gone. It’s strange, but what about Cloud isn’t, he reasons, and decides to read one of the many books he’s neglected on his shelf in the afternoon sun and try to ignore the sick sloshing of his gut.

He’s focused enough that he doesn’t notice Cloud’s return until a small tin and his fishing rod are dropped unceremoniously at his feet on the porch. He startles, and looks up at Cloud who is looking as defensive as ever.

He reaches down and picks up the tin, popping open the lid. It’s bait, an assortment of worms and crayfish that looks like one of the many offerings at Willy’s shop. He hasn’t bought any in quite a while, since he’s been attempting to save money, and it seems incredibly fresh. Which means…

Which means that Cloud just bought it. For him.

He knows the shock is written all over his face. He hopes that’s the only thing that’s written there. “Cloud…”

“You like fishing,” Cloud says before Sephiroth can say anything else. Sephiroth can see a faint flush on his pale skin. “Let’s go.”

“Now?”

“Why not?” Cloud says. “It’s not like you’re doing anything important. That book you’re reading is garbage. The main character leaves him in the end.”

Sephiroth glares at him and snaps the book shut, quieting his outrage at being spoiled for the ending and his curiosity over Cloud sharing his interest in tawdry romance novels. He gathers the supplies at his feet and sighs, letting it go.

“That is a terrible ending,” Sephiroth concedes.

“Yeah, it comes out of nowhere,” Cloud says, stepping off the porch.

~

“Sephiroth!” Marlon greets with a wave as he sidles up to Sephiroth’s stall. The farmer’s market hasn’t started yet, and Sephiroth is still arranging his pies on one of his tables around the rest of his produce. This is one of the few occasions Sephiroth sees Marlon out in town; usually he prefers to keep to himself and his little adventuring outfit in the north part of town, but even he is tempted by good, fresh food. “Good season so far?”

“Yes,” Sephiroth says. “Everything is growing well.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. He glances somewhere over Sephiroth’s shoulder and Sephiroth turns slightly to see Cloud, who is carrying two of his prized, enormous pumpkins with enviable ease. Sephiroth expects him to ask about Cloud, but Elliott and Abigail are effective gossips -- it seems that everyone is caught up. It’s irritating, but less so than answering endless questions would have been, so he can’t get too upset about the development. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”

Sephiroth gestures with his hand for him to continue. “Got some monsters up in the mines that are a little too high level for the likes of Gil and me,” he says. “I was hoping you and your new friend wouldn’t mind clearing some of them out for us. They’re just a nuisance now, but I don’t want them getting any ideas about coming into town. I could set you up with a new katana, for your trouble.”

It’s a generous offer, and the monsters must be more of a genuine threat than Marlon is letting on if he’s willing to part with one of his swords for free. “Of course,” Sephiroth says. “We can stop by tomorrow.”

“Fantastic,” Marlon says, clapping his hands together. “I’ll meet you at the entrance. Thank you both.” He nods at Cloud,who is placing the last of the pumpkins down in front of the stall and wiping at the dirt on his forearms.

“What was that about?” he asks once Marlon leaves.

“I volunteered us for some monster cleanup,” Sephiroth says.

“Monster cleanup?”

“The local mines are a hotbed of monster activity,” Sephiroth says. “I’ve been clearing them out periodically, but it seems like they’ve come back even more powerful than before.”

Cloud doesn’t say anything beside him, and Sephiroth raises an eyebrow at him. Sephiroth thought he’d jump at the opportunity, but there’s worry beginning to crease his forehead and a lead weight settles in Sephiroth’s stomach. “Nevermind. I can go alone--”

“I’ll go,” Cloud says, and then refuses to say anything else about it for the rest of the day.

They arrive the next day at the entrance to the mines soaking wet. A rain shower had come in overnight and continued until the late morning. Marlon chuckles when he sees them, much drier than looks possible given the weather.

“Did you swim here?” Marlon says with a grin and both Cloud and Sephiroth give him matching unamused looks, dripping on the blessedly dry cave floor. “Alright, alright, just a joke to lighten the mood. Sheesh.”

He reaches for his side and unstraps the blade attached at his hip, handing it to Sephiroth. The sheath is a deep, blood red with onyx inlays, the hilt braided black and silver. Sephiroth runs his fingers over it reverently and unsheathes it just enough to see the wrought steel beneath.

“That’s a fine blade,” Marlon says. “One of my best. I’m sad to see her go, but I trust she’ll be put to good use.”

“I guarantee it,” Sephiroth says, the old thrill of a fight already humming through his veins. He doesn’t notice that Cloud has gone very still beside him, until Marlon asks, “Are you ok, son?”

Sephiroth looks at Cloud, who is staring at the blade in Sephiroth’s hand and ignoring Marlon entirely. His eyes flicker up to Sephiroth’s, and the expression on his face is nearly enough to have him step back.

This may have been a bad idea.

Marlon clears his throat, drawing their attention back toward him. He gives them a brief description and then quickly exits the mine to let them do their work, running toward his warm looking cabin at the edge of the trailhead. They don’t move or speak for a long, tense moment.

“Cloud, I assure you--”

“I don’t need your assurances,” Cloud interrupts. He unsheathes his sword and Sephiroth’s half-convinced he’s about to disarm him and he fights down the instinct to leap away from him, but Cloud only holds it in a loose guard in one of his hands, staring at the glowing materia in the hilt. After a moment’s pause, he turns toward Sephiroth, mako eyes glowing in the low light: “You keep saying things are different. Prove it to me.”

With that, he strides into the mines.

The next two hours pass as if they’re in some sort of dream. It starts off slow and unsure, Cloud only half-fighting as he watches Sephiroth out of the corner of his eye. It isn’t until Sephiroth keeps him from being skewered from behind that Cloud actually starts to focus, and after that…well.

They move with a synchronicity beyond what Sephiroth had thought possible. Cloud knows his own style better than he does, and he finds that Cloud’s is as easy to adjust to as breathing. They dance around the movers and the castanets with an effortless grace, Sephiroth stepping into every space that Cloud leaves for him, and Cloud anticipating Sephiroth’s every movement down to the angle of his strikes.

They’ve fought each other countless times, but they’ve never fought together and oh. _Oh_. What a waste that was. Not for the first time, Sephiroth laments the loss of his enhanced body, if only to know the true extent of their abilities together.

The monsters get more difficult the deeper they go until they reach those that Marlon described. They’ve had little issue up to this point, but Sephiroth’s human body isn’t up to the task of enduring old habits, and he takes a calculated hit from a deathclaw to create an opening for Cloud to exploit. For a SOLDIER, it would have been a glancing blow, possibly not enough to even break his stance, but for a human, it’s enough to send him flying.

He crashes into the wall with a sickening crack, pain bursting behind his eyes and through his side. He thinks he hears Cloud shout his name, but he isn’t sure, his vision narrowing and a buzzing in his ears growing louder and louder. He must pass out for a few minutes, because by the time he can focus enough on his surroundings to get a vague idea of what’s going on, the monster is dead and Cloud is kneeling at his side with a Cure in hand.

“Stay with me,” Cloud says. Sephiroth must imagine the concern in his voice; his head is pounding.

“I have nowhere else to go,” Sephiroth says, grimacing as a shock wave of pain bursts through him.

Cloud gives him a grim look. “I can think of a place or two.”

“Worried about me, Cloud?” Sephiroth asks, with his usual deadpan despite the hiss he lets out when he bends the wrong way.

“Not if you have enough energy to be an ass,” Cloud says. Sephiroth feels the Cure wash over him, and the relief makes him moan, the sound echoing through the mines. Cloud casts it again, and then a third time, before he pockets the materia. His wounds aren’t fully healed, but they’re not bleeding anymore and his head is at least clearer than it was before.

“That was stupid,” Cloud says as Sephiroth struggles to sit up. Cloud’s hand steadies him in the center of his chest when he grunts in pain, and he can feel his warmth through his shirt, the way the callouses on his fingers catch on the fabric.

“No, it wasn’t,” Sephiroth says, defensive, as he leans against the rough stone. “It was just a slight miscalculation on my part.”

“‘A slight miscalculation’?” Cloud mimics. “If it had hit you head-on, you’d be dead.”

“I know that,” Sephiroth says with irritation. _How dare he lecture me. I was a god_. He ruthlessly silences the thought, but it doesn’t quite appease his wounded pride.“I intended it to hit where it did. And it gave you the opening to kill it, did it not?”

“...it did,” Cloud says.

“Well, then,” Sephiroth says. “As I said, a _slight_ miscalculation.”

He tries to stand up, but his legs are shaking, and a vicious, blinding pounding in his head starts up again. He nearly collapses, but Cloud steadies him, a solid, immovable weight at his side. Cloud takes advantage of his pain to duck underneath his arm and transfer most of Sephiroth’s weight across his shoulders. Sephiroth feels his other hand across his waist, tightening when Sephiroth tries to pitch forward out of his grasp.

“Stop being so stubborn,” Cloud huffs. “You’re making it really difficult for me to help you. You’re so damn _tall_. And heavy.”

Says the man with a sword as tall as he is strapped to his back. “I don’t need your help,” Sephiroth says, though it’s clear that’s a lie by the way Cloud is having to drag him toward the elevator. The pain in his side flares up and he hisses, his free arm coming up to hold it.

“Just shut up,” Cloud says and it’s clear that any concern he might’ve had earlier has now melted into the usual frustration. “This is hard enough without listening to you say dumb shit.”

This close, Sephiroth can smell the sweat on his skin, sickly sweet thanks to the mako, and the iron tang of blood -- most likely Sephiroth’s own -- on him. It’s grounding, familiar, and he finds himself leaning into him even further, even as Cloud shoots him a strange, searching look out of the corner of his eye that Sephiroth pretends he doesn’t notice.

They make it home, somehow, both of them drenched. Cloud digs a potion out of his supplies and gives it to Sephiroth, and it’s just enough to make the pain softer around the edges and his legs steadier under his feet. He manages to peel his clothes off and climb into the shower. His hair is crusted with blood, and he watches the water turn pink and run down the drain as he picks through it, letting the hot water ease some of the tension out of his body.

By the time he’s cleaned and changed, it’s well past dinner. He’s exhausted, and in pain, but he still manages to make a stir fry out of some of his left over vegetables and some meat he’d gotten at the market yesterday. But by the time he’s done, he realizes he isn’t interested in eating, the exhaustion too complete and the pain a little too fresh. With a sigh, he goes to put it in a container to save for tomorrow, but hesitates when he hears the shower turn off in the other room and Cloud padding across the floor a minute later.

He takes a deep breath, and before he can change his mind, fills a single plate with the stir fry, grabs a fork, and walks into the living room. Cloud’s sitting on the couch, dressed in a fresh set of dark clothes, his hair damp and his skin flushed pink from the heat of the water and Sephiroth’s new katana laid across his lap.

He’d completely forgotten about his weapon. Shame rolls through him; what kind of swordsman forgets about his weapon? He’d been spoiled with Masamune, always having access to it without having to think about it.

“Dinner,” Sephiroth says, offering him the plate of food. Cloud looks at it, slightly bewildered, and then back at Sephiroth. He thinks for a moment that Cloud is going to reject it again, like he did all those weeks ago, but he takes it, placing it on the coffee table in front of him.

“Thanks,” he says.

“I didn’t realize you picked up my katana,” Sephiroth says, for lack of anything better to say. “It’s unlike me to leave my weapon behind; I appreciate it.”

“Well, you were pretty out of it,” Cloud says. “Still are, it looks like. Your shirt’s on backwards.”

Sephiroth glances down at his sweater and realizes he’s right. He pulls his arms out of the sleeves beneath his shirt and twists it, his face heating up as his hair gets caught in the collar and he has to untangle himself from it. “Thank you,” he mutters, embarrassed.

Cloud shrugs it off, but there’s a smile playing at the edges of his lips that chafes at Sephiroth’s pride. Still, there’s more amusement there than mocking, so he’ll take what he can get. Cloud runs his hands over the scabbard, tracing the intricate patterns.

“It’s a beautiful sword,” Cloud comments, his thumb tracing the stone insets. “And well-made. How does someone in a town this small get their hands on something like this?”

“Here and there, was what I was told,” Sephiroth says, his hands itching at his sides to take it back. He closes them into fists to distract himself. Cloud’s eyes catch on the movement and his expression turns more mischievous as he licks his thumb and rubs non-existent dirt off the corded hilt. Bastard. “I didn’t think it prudent to push for details since I wanted one.”

“Do you do that a lot? Help with the local infestations?”

“On occasion. Marlon once caught me doing my katas and thought I could be of service.”

Cloud smirks. “He was totally stunned, wasn’t he?”

“Wouldn’t shut up about it,” Sephiroth says, allowing himself a small smile.

“Can’t say I blame him,” Cloud says, flicking open the blade an inch to draw his fingers along the steel in a way that is more attractive than it has any right to be. “Watching you fight is like nothing else.”

“Yes, I was once a sight to behold, if I am to understand,” Sephiroth says dryly, trying to keep his tone light. These conversations between them so often spiral into past hurts and he simply doesn’t have the energy right now.

“Still are,” Cloud says.

He snaps the blade back into its sheath before Sephiroth can do anything but stare at him, and he misses the surprise that must be written all over Sephiroth’s face. Sephiroth manages to school his expression back to neutral by the time Cloud looks up and holds out the sword to him, and he takes it with numb fingers.

He truly does not understand Cloud Strife.

Unaware of Sephiroth’s thoughts, Cloud picks up the fork to dig into the food on the table, and then glances at Sephiroth, who hasn’t moved. “You, uh, going to eat, too?”

“I already ate,” Sephiroth lies. He’s not sure why, other than to avoid Cloud’s scrutiny and to make as quick and painless of an exit as he can before he says something he regrets. It doesn’t work, though; his stomach rumbles loudly in the room, betraying him. Sephiroth feels his face flush, which only makes it that much worse.

Cloud’s lips twitch up, obviously enjoying Sephiroth’s embarrassment.

“I’m going to bed,” Sephiroth says, haughty even to his own ears. He feels off-kilter and out of his element, and it makes him defensive. If anyone asks, he’ll blame his injuries. “Put your dishes in the sink once you’re done. I’m tired of cleaning up after you.”

“I never asked you to,” Cloud points out. Sephiroth only huffs.

Sephiroth is almost at his room when he hears Cloud speak again. “You really are human, huh,” Cloud says, almost to himself. Sephiroth pretends that he doesn’t hear him, his heart speeding up in his chest, hope creating dangerous roots there.

~

In their effort to get back the night before without making Sephiroth’s injuries worse, they forget to tell Marlon that his monster problem is taken care of. As usual with this town, they find out about their oversight not from Marlon, but from one of the town gossips.

“Marlon said you never came out,” Elliott says. He’d shown up midmorning when Sephiroth had been checking on the corn fields, looking frightened, quickly followed by furious. “What was I supposed to think?”

“It was a routine monster cleanup,” Sephiroth says.

“That isn’t what Marlon said,” Elliott argues and Sephiroth can feel the headache building behind his eyes. “He said that neither he nor Gil had seen anything like them.”

“Marlon and Gil have rarely left this town,” Sephiroth says. “There’s a great many things they haven’t seen.”

“And you have?” Elliott says.

“Yes,” Sephiroth says. When he doesn’t continue, Elliott stares at him, obviously waiting for him to elaborate, but Sephiroth doesn’t back down. Elliott throws up his hands.

“Really? Nothing else? Of course not,” Elliott says, and the bitterness and frustration in his voice makes his words sharp. “I have attempted to respect your privacy, and have not pried into your past, but if it is relevant to my understanding of whether or not you are still alive, I deserve to know.”

His words echo sentiments he would rather forget, an unending flurry of people attempting to control him, believing that his identity, his memories, his everything belonged to them. “You are not owed any part of me,” Sephiroth says, his usual careful control snapping under the pressure. His words come out low, and dangerous. Commanding. Unyielding. “What I have told you, I have done so freely, but I will not be compelled to share more than I am willing.”

“But you would share it with _him_?” Elliott yells back, waving his hand toward Cloud, who has drawn closer at the sound of shouting.

“Cloud has nothing to do with this,” Sephiroth says, marvelling at how truly _ridiculous_ this is getting. He doesn’t know how many times, how many different versions of this fight they are going to have, and it’s confusing and exhausting. “We have had this discussion before, and I won’t have it again.”

He turns away, but Elliott grabs his arm. It’s a fast enough motion that Sephiroth reacts instinctively and before he’s even fully comprehended it, he’s twisted Elliott’s arm in a grip hard enough to snap his wrist.

The only thing that stops him is Cloud’s own hand on his bicep, halting the movement. “Sephiroth,” Cloud says, his voice low.

It’s enough to make him snap out of it, and he realizes, with mounting horror, what he’s done. There’s fear in Elliott’s eyes, his skin pale with it, his pulse thundering beneath Sephiroth’s fingers and he immediately lets go.

“I’m sorry,” Sephiroth says. “I didn’t mean--you surprised me.”

It’s not enough. Elliott clutches his wrist and stumbles back, the wide-eyed stare of something being hunted, and then turns and runs out of the corn field. Sephiroth lurches forward to follow, his mind racing, wondering what he could possibly say to fix this, but Cloud’s hand tightens his grip on his arm.

“Don’t,” Cloud says. “You’ll make it worse.”

“What do you know?” Sephiroth snaps, yanking his arm from Cloud’s grip. “You are no better at people than I am, do not patronize me.”

“I have friends,” Cloud says in his usual blunt, brusque way. Normally, it would diffuse the situation, but this time, it strikes a sickening chord in Sephiroth.

“Oh yes, your _friends,_” Sephiroth says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “The ones that you are still hiding from. Tell me, Cloud, how are Tifa Lockhart and your orphans?”

He’s gone too far, but he can’t stop himself, hurt and fury and self-loathing swirling in him in a frightening storm he can’t control.

“Alive,” Cloud bites out. “Which is more than I can say about any of yours.”

For a moment, Sephiroth hates Cloud with everything in his being, wants to let it consume as he once did, wants to summon his sword and slice him through the chest. But it fades as quickly as it comes, leaving nothing but pain and slow-burning anger in its wake. It isn’t Cloud he’s angry at.

He turns immediately and walks away, even as Cloud calls out his name. He ignores him, and the shaking in his hands. The pain in his side is back from overexertion, and so is his headache, but he ignores both of them. He walks past the house and into the shed and for a moment, considers taking out the rusted sword in the back to see what kind of damage he could do with it, but chooses an axe instead. There’s always work to do on a farm, always a way to distract from the emotions eating away at him.

He goes to the back pasture. He needs wood for the winter, and this area has been growing wild, several felled trees from the last summer storm he’d never cleaned up scattered about. He begins to chop log after log after log, and before long, he loses himself to the rhythm of it, the stretch and pull of his muscles as he cuts. The emotions flow out of him with every strike, like rain down a grate, and he welcomes the numbness it brings.

He only stops when it gets too hard to see. His shoulders are burning, and his whole body is slicked with sweat. The pain in his side has gone from a minor inconvenience to a throbbing he can no longer ignore. He cradles his side and leaves the axe and all of the wood he’s piled on the ground to collect tomorrow.

Cloud is standing outside when he gets back, the porch light and what seems like every light in the house on. His arms are crossed as he leans against the beam next to the stairs, but he doesn’t look angry or defensive like he usually does. Just tired.

Sephiroth almost turns around when he sees him, not sure he’s ready to face him after what he said, or after what Cloud said to him. He’s not sure where he’ll go, but he doesn’t have to consider it for very long.

“This how you deal with every argument?” Cloud asks, with an ease and a vague amusement that Sephiroth isn’t expecting. “Farm until it goes away?”

“Normally, I just start a fight,” Sephiroth says. “It seemed unwise to do so under the circumstances.”

“Because I’d win?” Cloud asks.

“Because you would have ruined all of my corn,” Sephiroth says.

The edge of Cloud’s mouth quirks up. “Corn’s gross,” Cloud says. “I’d be doing you and everyone in town a favor.”

Sephiroth scowls, but decides not to argue the point. He needs a shower, and food, and painkillers, not necessarily in that order, but what he doesn’t need is another argument, good humored or not. “Don’t antagonize me,” Sephiroth says.

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Cloud pushes himself off of the beam, jerking his head toward the door. “Come on.”

“I don’t need to be invited into my own home,” Sephiroth says even as he follows, the screen door slamming shut behind him. It’s warm and bright, the lights burning his eyes after getting used to the dark outside. He intends to go to his room and at least attend to his hands before going for a shower, but Cloud disappears into the kitchen and that’s enough of a rarity that Sephiroth’s curiosity overcomes any more pressing needs.

“Sit,” Cloud instructs.

“Why?” Sephiroth asks. Cloud shoots him a glare.

“Just do it, alright?”

Sephiroth does, his body still coiled in the tension he’s felt since Elliott left, unsure what to expect. He watches Cloud go to a pot on the stove that hadn’t been there earlier and open the lid. Whatever it is, it smells _heavenly_, rich and salty, and something Sephiroth has definitely never made before. Cloud ladles out two helpings, setting one in front of Sephiroth.

“Eat,” Cloud says, tossing him a spoon. He’s distracted enough that he nearly drops it, staring at Cloud as if he’s grown a second head. Cloud seems determined to ignore him, avoiding his gaze and starting in on his own portion without preamble.

It’s some type of stew, and it tastes as good as it smells, the meat melting on his tongue and the spices perfectly melded with the root vegetables, all fresh if the dirt still on the counter is any indication.

When they’re finished, Sephiroth takes their bowls and puts them in the sink. “Thank you,” he says to Cloud as he cleans them. He shrugs off his thanks. 

“I’m tired of eating things out of cans,” Cloud says. Sephiroth wisely refrains from pointing out that no one was making him do that. “Plus, it didn’t seem like you’d be in any state to feed yourself.”

“How sweet,” Sephiroth says dryly, trying to hide how pleased he is by it.

“You’re still injured and just chopped wood for 6 hours,” Cloud says, bristling. “I didn’t save you in that cave so that you could just die on me.”

“I may not have had this body for long, but I do know that missing one meal will not mean the difference between life and death,” Sephiroth says. He turns off the sink, trying to ignore the pain in his hands as he towels them off.

“No, but overworking yourself can be,” Cloud says. He reaches over to where Sephiroth was sitting and places a potion on the table. “How’s the headache?”

Sephiroth grimaces and returns to the table, too tired to make any clever comment back, and drinks the vial. “I’ll get you a replacement,” Sephiroth says.

“Don’t bother. I don’t use them much anyway,” Cloud says. They lapse into a heavy silence, though it’s not as unwelcome as it usually is. Sephiroth should apologize, or at least acknowledge that he had been out of line, but the words stick in his throat, the anger, though no longer searing, still burning low and deep. He decides to just cut his losses and try to piece himself back together somewhere outside of Cloud’s purview, but before he can get up, Cloud speaks.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Cloud says with his usual knack of bringing up things Sephiroth absolutely does not want to talk about. “He should have known better than to grab you when you weren’t expecting it.”

“Yes, well, that was his point, wasn’t it?” Sephiroth says, the bitterness lacing his voice. “He doesn’t know better. And I don’t wish him to.”

“How much does he know?” Cloud asks after a moment.

“Almost nothing,” Sephiroth says. “No one in this town recognized me when I arrived.”

Cloud’s eyes widen. “Really? No one?”

“Do you think they would have allowed me to stay if they had?”

Cloud concedes that point with an understanding shrug. Sephiroth sighs, and rubs his temple. “What he’s asking of me...it isn’t unreasonable,” Sephiroth says. “But that only makes things harder, not easier.”

Cloud snorts. “Yeah, well, welcome to people.”

Sephiroth huffs out a small sound of acknowledgement, his lips tilting up. It’s such a simple statement, filled with so much fondness and exasperation that it makes it seem like a minor inconvenience, and not something that has ruined lives before. Has ruined Sephiroth’s life. Cloud has a way of saying things so practically that it makes Sephiroth seem almost ridiculous for taking it seriously, and that...it’s jarring and upsetting and freeing all at once. Sephiroth hesitates, the question forming on his tongue before he can stop it.

“What would you do, in my position?”

Cloud’s eyebrows crease, his lips parting in surprise before he shakes his head. “I’m not the best person to ask.”

“You’re the only person I can ask,” Sephiroth says, voice flat. Cloud is watching him with such intensity that Sephiroth is wondering if he inadvertently stepped on another one of Cloud’s manyhidden internal landmines. But after a moment, he only sighs and tilts his head toward the ceiling, thoughtful.

“I dunno. It’s hard to trust other people, especially when you know they’re hiding something.”

“You think I should tell him,” Sephiroth says. He’d expected as much, but he can’t help getting defensive.

Cloud raises his hands in a placating gesture. “I’m not getting involved,” Cloud says. “I’m just saying, there are some parts of yourself you have to sacrifice in order to get close to people. And you have to decide whether that’s worth it or not.”

“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

Cloud shrugs again, though it seems more helpless than dismissive. “That’s the only way to learn.” Sephiroth allows himself the ghost of a smile. It’s a very Cloud response: practical and honest with the weight of all the impossible things he carries.

“What parts of yourself have you sacrificed?” Sephiroth asks, quiet and careful, unsure how Cloud will respond. If he will at all.

Cloud’s gaze is unflinching, sad and tired in a way Sephiroth has seen reflected back at him in the mirror countless times, in this life and before. “Everything.”

He stands, and walks to the door. Sephiroth knows he should let him go, but he has one more question. “Was it enough?”

Cloud’s hand rests on the doorframe, and Sephiroth sees his knuckles go white as he grips it, a thin, cracked line appearing in the wood. “No,” Cloud says. “But it was worth it.”

~

“You can ask me to leave,” Cloud says apropos of nothing one evening. He’s freshly showered, leaning against the kitchen doorframe in more casual clothes than Sephiroth has seen him in, though in his usual monochrome style, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. He’s watching Sephiroth as he always does when he is entertaining thoughts Sephiroth can’t hope to track, like any word might trigger Sephiroth to insanity. Sephiroth bites back a frustrated sigh, returning his attention to his green bean casserole.

“Will you?”

There’s a long, loaded pause. “No,” he says.

Sephiroth puts down his spatula, the conversation too stupid to subject his dinner to. He turns his full attention toward Cloud, unimpressed.

Cloud shrugs. “You could still ask.”

Sephiroth does sigh this time. “What is it you want, Cloud?”

“I just want to know why,” he says. “Why won’t you?”

Sephiroth doesn’t say anything, his mind racing. He can’t tell the truth, but lying would be worse. Cloud speaks again before he can formulate a response, his voice full of warning and defiance, reminiscent of when he’d first arrived, of how Sephiroth remembers it from his other lives in the snatches of moments between fights.

“Do you think you’re going to earn my forgiveness?”

Sephiroth freezes. Had he asked him this a month ago, a week ago, hell, even a day ago Sephiroth would have been able to answer with complete and perfect honesty, without any hesitation or emotion behind it. But now...now it’s different. He knows what the answer is still, but it comes attached with regret and resignation and sadness and something so much worse: hope. He doesn’t expect it, but he _hopes_.

“No,” Sephiroth says, his voice as controlled as he can make it. “No. Of course not.”

Cloud’s gaze is scrutinizing, and his eyes narrow as he watches him trying to find the lie in it. But he can’t, because Sephiroth believes that, as much as he wishes it otherwise.

“Then why?” Cloud asks again.

He knows there is an answer that will satisfy Cloud’s curiosity, just as he knows that saying nothing will only serve to upset him. There are different shades of the truth that match the Sephiroth Cloud has come to see, some of them more palatable than others, and they flicker through his mind, one after the other, all available for the taking. But there’s something about how and why Cloud is asking this question that feels significant. Like a crossroads from which the rest of his life may be decided. He closes his eyes for a moment, weighing his options.

Except there is nothing to decide. Since the moment he woke into this new life, he’s only had one choice. And so, against all of his instincts related to self-preservation, he tells the truth.

“I have had many things taken from me,” Sephiroth says once he’s gathered his thoughts. “My birthday, my childhood, my body, my friends, my consent, my sanity. My life. Much of it was my own fault. I believed that I deserved to have those things taken from me, because there was something in me that was left wanting. I was taken advantage of because I didn’t know how to say ‘no’ in the right way, or enough. People left because I had failed to convince them that I was worth loving.I endured cruelty and inflicted it in turn because I wasn’t human enough to stop. Whether this was Hojo’s teaching or my own mind, I don’t know, but it hardly matters. The result was the same. It was easy for Jenova to infect my mind, and easier still for me to let her. She did twist me and use me and forced the last shreds of my sanity to her will, but all of that potential was within me. The rage, the hatred, the pain. She used nothing that wasn’t already there, nothing that I didn’t allow her to use. It was a pleasure to allow someone else control. I was so tired, Cloud.

“I’m not telling you this to garner sympathy or to claim that I was not at fault, but for you to understand. The only thing I have done my entire life -- _lives _\-- is propagate the pain inflicted on me onto others. Onto you. I cannot undo what I have done. But I can change. I can give instead of take, however paltry and meaningless it may be. I will give you a place in my home, give you food I have made, and give you the opportunity to end my life, if that’s what you want. That’s why I will not ask you to leave.”

His gaze had drifted away from Cloud as he had spoken, unable to face him, but he turns it back to Cloud when he is finished, his stubborn pride allowing him to do nothing else. Cloud is rigid where he stands, bloodless fingers pressing bruises into the skin of his own arms, his expression caught somewhere between surprised and something he can’t recognize. Or perhaps doesn’t want to.

The silence stretches on and on. Sephiroth’s heart begins to race and then it slows back down again into a dull thud. The longer Cloud doesn’t say anything, the more he just _stares_ as if he’s trying to tease out any loose thread of Sephiroth and tug it until he unravels, the more Sephiroth feels a deep, creeping regret and worse still, _shame_, rise from the pit of his stomach. It makes him angry that Cloud alone has the ability to make him feel this way, and even angrier at himself for disclosing something so personal that he knew Cloud wouldn’t respond well to, no matter how honest it was, and the war between his emotions and his rationality heightens to a fever pitch.

“Say something,” Sephiroth grounds out.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Cloud says.

Sephiroth doesn’t either. Some recognition, maybe, that what he said wasn’t easy to say. Maybe that even if Cloud doesn’t forgive him, he might understand him a little bit better. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, and that Cloud is the last person he should be asking for this kind of acknowledgment. His selfishness is astounding, even to himself.

“Nevermind,” Sephiroth says. “There’s nothing to say, is there?” 

He opens the oven and places his green bean casserole in and sets a timer. He desperately wants to leave, but Cloud is blocking the only exit. He turns away instead, leaning against the counter to stare out the window, willing Cloud to go.

For once, he listens. Sephiroth isn’t sure where he goes; he doesn’t hear the door close to the outside or in any other place in the house, but Cloud knows how to be quiet if he wants to and the blood roaring in Sephiroth’s ears is making it difficult to pay attention. He suddenly wants to lay down, let unconsciousness take him so he just doesn’t have to _think_, but he is unwilling to leave the kitchen in case Cloud is still in the living room.

_Coward_, he thinks viciously at himself. It’s the same thought he’d had when he watched Genesis throw himself into his madness and watched Angeal follow, wanting to do the same but unwilling to assume the consequences, the same one he’d had when Jenova had whispered how much easier it would be to get revenge on the ones who had hurt him like this. The same one that had him finding refuge here instead of going straight to Midgar and turning himself into Cloud the moment he’d gotten back, his full mental faculties available to him in a way they hadn’t been in years.

He’s changed so much over the past year, but maybe some things never really do. After all, whatever form it happens to take, he’s never been able to let go of his fear.

~

(Then again, maybe letting go of his fear isn’t a mark of progress. Maybe the real proof of change is doing the right thing, despite the fear.)

~

Sephiroth, eyes closed, takes a deep breath, the sweet sting of brine sharp in his nose, and knocks on the door.

It’s a chilly afternoon, the first stirrings of winter apparent in the darkening skies and the frothier surf. He’s wearing a scarf that he knitted himself, simple and grey, with his thin gloves that do nothing to keep the chill from his fingers, which are clutching a plate of orange ginger scones. The only thing really warming him is the frantic, anxious beat of his heart, which he would gladly trade for a thicker coat.

There’s a crash from inside and the muffled sound of swearing, and then Elliott is opening the door, looking as disheveled and frenetic as he usually does when someone interrupts one of his writing sessions. His eyes widen as they take in Sephiroth, his lips parting slightly as he sucks in a breath. Sephiroth, with some mix of anxiety and wistfulness, instantly forgets what he came here to say.

They stare at each other for a long, awkward moment.

“I...wasn’t expecting you,” Elliott says at the same time Sephiroth raises his plate and says, “I brought scones.”

“Ah,” Elliott says. He seems to remember himself and blinks, taking a large step back and pushing open the door wider. “Please, come in.”

Sephiroth steps over the threshold. The one-room cabin is even messier than the last time he was here, papers strewn over his desk and spilling onto the floor, overflowing the trash bin beside the desk. The bonsai plant that Sephiroth had managed to nurse back to health is once again neglected and dehydrated, and there are scorch marks on the upturned pans beside the hotplate shoved in the corner at the end of Elliott’s bed. Sephiroth can see his breath in the air and he sets down his scones at the edge of the side table with the bonsai, taking off his gloves as he crosses the room to start a fire in the hearth as Elliot flits about, attempting to clean. It’s so familiar that Sephiroth feels the tension leak out of his shoulders as he half-listens to Elliott’s excuses for not cleaning.

The fire roars to life quickly under his care, and Elliott has cleared most of his desk off, and so they sit, the plate of scones a peace offering between them. Sephiroth tries not to be offended that Elliott doesn’t take one.

“I’ve come to apologize,” Sephiroth starts. He’s been rehearsing this speech in his head for three days, and it is odd to hear the words aloud now. “What I did to you may have been unintended and out of reflex, but you couldn’t have known how I would react. You were right; had I told you about my...history, it could have been avoided. And for that, I am sorry.”

Elliott drags his thumbnail against the rough grain of the wood in front of him, his eyes fixed on the plate of scones. “Why now?” Elliott asks. “It’s been weeks.”

“I know. I realize that I should have done it earlier,” Sephiroth says, “but I have been considering what you said. I said before that I do not owe you my life’s story -- and I still believe that to be true -- but you are important to me, and I have decided there are some things I am willing to sacrifice in order to prove that.”

Elliott’s gaze lifts, something like hope sparking in them as he looks at Sephiroth. “What are you saying?”

Sephiroth takes a steadying breath, lacing his fingers over his folded knee in order to keep them from shaking. He thinks of Cloud and exhales in a rush of air. _It was worth it_.

“I want to tell you who I am. What my life was...before.” He closes his eyes and the fear is so strong he can taste it, burning in the back of his throat, his instincts overpowering, overwhelming. _Unnecessary risk_, his mind screams. _You are above them, better than them, _Hojo’s voice echoes. _You owe them nothing. _

Hojo was right. Sephiroth doesn’t owe anyone anything. But not because he is superior to them, but because he’s always had a choice.

Sephiroth begins.

All said, it takes barely 45 minutes to explain everything. His childhood in the labs, Angeal and Genesis and Zack, Wutai, Shinra, Nibelheim, Jenova, Cloud. He doesn’t go into detail, and instead sticks to the main beats of the story with as much detachment as he can manage, though he struggles to keep control of himself more than once when he remembers tiny details like the acrid stench of Genesis’ singed wing, or the blistering cold of mako in his veins before he was old enough to pronounce the word.

Throughout it all, Elliott stays silent. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t speak -- his body is an orchestra of quivering hands and brassy expressions, eyes wide with disbelief and so pale he looks almost grey. There are tear tracks on his cheeks.Sephiroth can’t keep his gaze on him after the first few minutes, staring through the window over his shoulder at the swaying, prickly sand grass on the dune behind the cabin, but every once in a while, his eyes stray back and he’s met with a new reaction that he doesn’t dare to interpret.

“I know this must change what you think of me,” Sephiroth says finally. “But I am not the same as I was, and I hope now that you know, we can start again. I want this, what is between us. I care very deeply about you.”

A minute passes in silence. Then two. The air between them is a dark, heavy thing. Sephiroth can do nothing but wait, watching Elliott for any sign. Of forgiveness, of understanding, of acceptance, _anything_. Hope stubbornly clings to him like sap. _He is in shock. He just needs a few minutes to process, and then, and then..._

But the minutes tick by and there’s no change, there’s nothing but his white-knuckle grip on the table and glassy eyes staring at the untouched scones.

“I’m sorry,” Elliott says, his voice failing him twice before he gets the words out. “I can’t.”

The room narrows into a single point. “You can’t…?”

“I love you,” Elliott says. It’s the first time he’s ever said it, and the words create ruins in Sephiroth’s chest. “But I can’t. I can’t be with you. Not knowing all of this. The things you did, I--I can’t live with it, knowing what you’ve done. It’s too much for me. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Everything in Sephiroth is numb. He nods, or he thinks he does, and stands up. He doesn’t remember leaving the cabin, doesn’t remember if he said anything or Elliott did. Before he realizes it, he’s at the end of the pier, staring into the swirling eddy of water, thrashing and spitting as the wind picks up. He can’t think, can’t form words, only feels a nameless fury and a soul-deep hurt he swore he’d never allow himself to feel again. Once, he became a god and nearly destroyed the world over it.

He drops to his knees on the water-worn wood, his head in his hands, and yells until his voice gives out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy one-year anniversary to this fic! I can’t believe it’s been a full year!
> 
> I want to start off by saying thank you again, everyone who kudo’d and commented on the first chapter; all of your words were incredibly encouraging and really motivated me to continue. Thank you all so much!
> 
> I also want to thank [violettressed](/users/violettressed/) for doing the beta on this chapter and listening to all my crack-y headcanons (what else could this fic be, but a combo of crack-y headcanons?), as always. 
> 
> One more (even more Sefikura-centric) chapter to go! Thanks for reading!


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